£954 


Ssife*-  ^    .;^,».^_^%&2 


COMPANY. 


HYMNS 


FOR 


IOTHEKS  AND  CHILDREN. 


COMPILED   BY 


THE    AUTHOR   OF    "VIOLET,"    "DAISY,"    Ac, 


BOSTON: 
WALKER,    WISE,    AND    COMPANY, 

245    WASHINGTON    STREET. 
1861. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1860,  by 

WALKER,    WISE,   AND    COMPANY, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


University  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


PREFACE. 


SINCE  the  publication  of  the  Hymns  of  the  Ages,  its  com- 
pilers have  frequently  been  urged  to  prepare  a  volume  of  like 
character  for  children. 

One  of  them  has  accordingly  given  the  leisure  of  several 
years  to  the  present  work;  her  plan  being,  to  collect  devout, 
entertaining,  and  suggestive  poetry,  —  morning  and  evening 
hymns,  and  those  calculated  to  stimulate  the  imagination,  re- 
fine the  taste,  and  train  the  child's  heart  to  become  strong, 
humane,  and  brave,  as  well  as  keep  it  gentle,  reverent,  and 
pure. 

Finding  a  sad  lack  of  material,  she  offers  the  volume  now 
with  diffidence,  hoping  that  at  least  its  deficiencies  may  draw 
some  true  poet's-  attention  to  the  wants  of  "  these  little  ones," 
that  they  may  no  longer  be  offered  thin  and  coarse  dilutions 


282151 


IV  PREFACE. 

of  morality,  but  hymns  delicate,  beautiful,   and  rare,    as  the 
souls  which  wait  to  receive  them. 

Meantime,  such  as  her  work  is,  she  would  cordially  thank 
the  many  mothers  who  have  encouraged  and  assisted  in  its 
preparation,  and  the  many  little  Lilies,  Freddies,  and  Kitties 
who  have  lent  their  favorite  volumes  for  inspection,  and  oft- 
times  taught  the  merit  of  the  hymns  by  their  loving  and  tender 
recital;  —  for  there  are  no  Athenaeum  libraries  of  children's 
books,  and  this  has  literally  been  gathered  "  out  of  the  mouth 
of  babes." 

c.  s.  w. 

ROXBURY,  October  16,  1860. 


CONTENTS. 


PART    I. 
CHILDREN. 

—  PAGK 

THE  BABY Providence  Journal.      .  3 

MY  BABY W.  C.  Bennett.    ...  4 

THE  BABIE 6 

A  CRADLE  SONG Rev.^W.  Calvert.      .    .  7 

CRADLE  SONG Songsjrom  the  German.  8 

LULLABY W.  (TBennett.     ...  9 

A  ROCKING  HYMN George  Wither.    ...  10 

THE  LITTLE  ONES  IN  BED 11 

THE  PATTER  OF  LITTLE  FEET 11 

To  MY  GODCHILD,  ALICE MisTlduloch 14 

PEASANT  CHILDREN Mary_IIomtt 15 

THE  CHILDREN'S  PRAYER Mary  Howitt 17 

MY  LITTLE  DAUGHTER'S  SHOES C.  J .  Sprapue.     ...  19 

BABY'S  SHOES W.  C.  Bennett.     ...  21 

AN  ANGEL  IN  THE  HOUSE Leigh  Hunt 22 

PART    II. 

FOR    YOUNG    CHILDREN. 

CREEP  BEFORE  YOU  WALK James  Ballantyne.     .    .  27 

THE  TURTLE-DOVES Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes.     .  28 


VI  CONTENTS. 

WHAT  A  CHILD  HAS Songs  from  the  German.     .  30 

WHAT  I  LOVE MrsTGilman 30 

THE  LITTLE  ANGEL $eTodiesfor  Childhood.     .  31 

LITTLE  RAIN-DROPS AunTEffie's  Rhymes.     .    .  31 

THE  DARLING  LITTLE  GIRL Melodies  for  Childhood.     .  33 

Is  IT  You? Mrs.  Goodwin 33 

THE  ROBIN-REDBREASTS*""". AunTJffie's  Rhymes.     .    .  34 

GOOD  MORNING 35 

I  WILL  BE  GOOD  TO-DAY' 37 

GOD  IMADK  IMF.  .  .^ ffymns  for  Totmg  Children.  37 

LITTLE  DANDELION 38 

LILY  OF  THE  VALLEY ^^. 40 

THE  JOURNEY Choice  Poems 41 

LADY  MOON R^Jf.  Milnes 41 

LADY  BIRD Choice  Poems 42 

THE  WATCH-DOG Alexander  Smart.     ...  43 

LITTLE  CHILDREN,  LOVE  ONE  ANOTHER 44 

BEING  KIND  AND  AFFECTIONATE 45 

NOT  READY  FOR  SCHOOL Mrs.  Oilman 46 

BUSY  LITTLE  HUSBANDMAN 48 

KINDNESS  TO  SERVANTS Alexander  Smart.     ...  49 

THE  LITTLE  TREE  THAT  WANTED  TO  HAVE 

OTHER  LEAVES RiicTcert 50 

THE  APPLE-TREE Jane  Taylor 53 

WHO  STOLE  THE  BIRD'S-NEST Choice  Poems 54 

THE  BEETLE Mrs^  Oilman 58 

GIVE  AS  YOU  'D  TAKE Alexander  Rodger.  ...  59 

THE  BIRD'S  FUNERAL Songsfi-om  the  German.    .  60 

MY  FATHER Ann  Taylor 61 

MY  MOTHER Awn  Taylor} 62 

THE  DOCTOR Alexander  Smart.     ...  64 

THE  HAND-POST Ann  Taylor 65 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

PART    III. 
NATURE. 

THE  BOOK  OF  NATURE Keble 71 

THE  BEGGAR fit.  Loivell 72 

GUESS  WHAT  I  HAVE  HEARD itfrs.  Fallen 74 

WHAT  THEY  ARE  DOING Rhymes  for  Little  Ones.  7d 

THE  GLADNESS  OF  NATURE Bryant 78 

WHAT  I  WOULD  BE      ....:....  Songs  from  the  German.  79 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  GRASS John's.  DuoigTit.   ...  79 

BIRDS ._. Mary  Howitt 81 

SUMMER  WOODS Mpry  Howitt 83 

LITTLE  BELL T-.  Westwood.  ....  86 

KINDNESS  TO  ANIMALS Gisborn 89 

THE  OAK-TREE Mary  Howitt 90 

SUNSHINE Mary  Howitt 92 

ROBERT  OF  LINCOLN W.  C.  Bryant.      ...  94 

THANKFULNESS x 96 

THE  WIND Mary~Lamb 96 

THE  KITTEN  AND  THE  FALLING  LEAVES.    .  Wordsworth 98 

THE  CORAL  BRANCH , 99 

JACK  FROST Choice  Poems.     ...  100 

IT  SNOWS IL~F.  Gould.  ....  103 

LOVING  AND  LIKING Mary~Lamb 105 

THE  BAREFOOT  BOY J.7?*~Whittier.    ...  107 

TIRED  OF  PLAY N.^  Willis 110 

NOT   TO   MYSELF   ALONE Ill 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PART    IY. 

RELIGIOUS   INSTRUCTION. 

I.    THE  HEAVENLY  FATHER. 

THE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER Mrs.  Voice 117 

TEACHING  LITTLE  CHILDREN.    .    .    .    Keble 118 

THE  PURE  IN  HEART Keble 119 

THE  CHILD  AND  THE  ANGELS    .    .    .     ChdrTes~Swain 120 

GOD  OUR  FATHER Sunday-School  Hymns.   .     .     .  121 

GOD  is  NEAR Hymns  for  Little  Ones  at  Home.  122 

FEAR  NOT 122 

GOD  SEES  ME Hymns  for  Young  Children.     .  123 

GOD  LOVES  ME Hymns  for  Young  Children.     .  125 

GOD'S  CARE Montgomery 125 

GOD  is  GOOD Mrs.  Pollen 126 

WHO  TAKES  CARE .     Songs  jor  Sunday  Schools.  .    .  128 

FLOWERS Mary  Howitt 129 

CHILDREN  IN  CHURCH    ......     Sunday^School  Hymns.    .     .     .  130 

SEEKING  GOD T^Gray,  Jr 131 

THE  BEST  OFFERING Jane  Taylor 132 

THE  GOLDEN  RULE W.  Roscoe .    .  133 

THE  THRONE 134 

HYMN Mrs.  Gilman 135 

"  OUR  FATHER  WHO  ART  IN  HEAVEN"  Jane  Taylor 136 

II.    THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD. 

SWEDISH  MOTHER'S  HYMN      ....    Fredenka  Bremer 137 

"  COME  UNTO  ME" Hymns  for  fyf ant  Minds.  .    .  138 

THE  INFANT  JESUS  .    .    ^ 138 

THE  CHILDREN'S  DESIRED . 140 

HYMN X'  •    •    Melodies  for  Childhood.     .    .  140 


CONTENTS.  IX 

CHRIST'S  LOVE Sunday-School  Hymn-Book.  141 

COME  TO  ME Pollen 142 

LET  THEM  COME A\S. 143 

FORGIVENESS Jane  Taylor.    .    .    .    .    .  144 

JESUS 'Furness. 145 

"  GIVE  MK  THY  HEART" Sunday-School  Hymns.  .     .  146 

SHEPHERD  OF  ISRAEL Sacred  Offering 147 

FOR  A  CHRISTIAN  CHILD Louis~Tf.  von  Haym.      .     .  148 

CHRISTMAS Hymns  for  Young  Children.  149 

JESUS  AND  THE  DOVE Maria  Lowell. 151 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE Andersen 154 

Ax  EASTERN  LEGEND Alger's  Eastern  Poetry.     .  162 

LOVE  TO  JESUS Jane  Taylor 163 

III.    MORNING  AND  EVENING  HYMNS. 

THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL F.  W.  Faber 164 

I'.IKDS  AND  ANGELS Songs  from  the  German.     .  166 

CHILD'S  SONG Mrs.  Follen 166 

THE  ANGELS 167 

I  WANT  TO  BE  AN  ANGEL MeUxKes  for  Childhood.      .  169 

A  CHILD'S  PRAYER 170 

"  BEAR  EACH  OTHER'S  BURDENS  " 171 

THE  LORD'S  PRAYER Sacred  Offer-ing 171 

THE  SUN G-ermqn  Songs 172 

MORNING  SONG German  Songs 172 

PRAYER Melodies  for  Childhood.     .  173 

MORNING  HYMN Bishop  Kenn 174 

MORNING  HYMN Rev.  J.  Pierpont.  ....  175 

EVENING  HYMN Rev.  J.  Pierpont 175 

GOOD  NIGHT Mr&Follen 176 

THE  GOOD  BOY'S  HYMN  ON  GOING  TO  BED    Mrs.  Follen 177 

EVENING  HYMN .  177 


X  CONTENTS. 

EVENING  HYMN M.  L.  Duncan.      .    .    .  178 

EVENING  HYMN 178 

EVENING  HYMN Mrs.  Pollen 179 

EVENING  HYMN Mrs.  Fatten 180 

EVENING  HYMN Bishop  Kenn 181 

AN  EVENING  PRAYER Songs  from  the  German.  182 

IV.    MISCELLANEOUS. 

WISDOM 183 

THE  HOLY  CHILD Heber 184 

IMMORTAL  BEAUTY George  Herbert.    .    .    .  184 

SUNDAY  EVENING Choice  Poems 185 

THE  TEN  COMMANDMENTS 187 

THE  DELUGE 187 

THE  ARK:  AND  DOVE Mrs.  Sigourney.    ...  189 

THE  STORY  OF  MOSES^  *. — . 189 

DAVID  IN  THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM     .    .    .     Charles  Lamb 191 

HERODIAS'S  DAUGHTER .     Charles  Lamb.  .    .    .    •  193 

THE  SPARTAN  BOY Mary  Lamb 195 

ABOU-BEN-ADHEM Leigh  Hunt 196 

THE  HEART  A  BELL Songs^from  the  German.  197 

PROFANITY Sundaf^chool  Hymns.    .  198 

CONSCIENCE Hymns  for  Infant  Minds  199 

THE  UNSEEN Adelaide  Taylor.    ...  201 

ETERNITY Jane  Taylor 202 

IMMORTALITY Sort-gsfrom  the  German.  202 

THE  STARS Hymns  for  Infant  Minds.  204 

A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN Alfred  Domett.     .    .    .  205 

FOREST  SCENE  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  WICKLIFF  .    Mary  Howitt 207 


CONTENTS.  XI 


PART    V. 

OLDER    CHILDREN. 

THE  SPRING-TIME  OF  LIFE GeorgeJ)onald.  ....  217 

THE  PURPOSE  OF  LIFE J.  G.  Whittier 219 

THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  HOUSE      ....     CharleiT^fackay.     .    .    .  220 

THE  SCULPTOR  BOY Bishop  Doane 223 

A  PSALM  OF  LIFE LongfeUmo^^.    ....  224 

LABOR Mrs.  F.  S.  Osgood.      .    .  225 

TRUE  HAPPINESS SirJI.  Wbtton 227 

FREEDOM /.  -R.  Lowell 228 

THE  HERITAGE J.  R.  Lowell 229 

PRIDE       i-. 231 

THE  NOBLY  BORN Disciples"  Hymn-Book.     .  232 

Tin;  PEBBLE  AND  THE  ACORN H.F.Gould. 233 

LITTLE  THINGS HJelodies  for  Childhood.   .  235 

THE  KING'S  EXAMPLE Alger's  Oriental  Poetry.  .  237 

EACH  CAN  DO  SOMETHING Southern  Churchman.  .    .  237 

EVERY  LITTLE  HELPS Choice  Poems 238 

LITTLE  DEEDS 240 

THE  MOUNTAIN  TORRENT Charles  MacTcay.    .    .    .  241 

WHO  is  MY  NEIGHBOR? Peabody 242 

THE  LITTLE  MATCH-SELLERS Choice  Poems 243 

FORGIVE  THY  BROTHER ^_- 244 

THE  BEGGAR'S  REVE^CE Alger's  Oriental  Poetry.  .  245 

SPEAK  GENTLY 246 

No GeorgeBennett 247 

THE  FORSAKEN SacrecF 'Offering.     ...  248 

THE  FAIRY'S  GIFT 249 

DON'T  FRET 250 

THANKFULNESS          251 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

HOPE J.  G.  WhiUier 252 

Two  WAYS Charles~Swain 253 

NEVER  RAIL  AT  THE  WORLD Charles  Swain 253 

IN  SICKNESS ltev!~W.  Calvert.     ...  254 

THE  CRIPPLE £*^for 255 

THE  BOY  AND  THE  FLOWER Andersen 257 

CCEUR  DE  LION  AT  THE  BIER  OF  HIS  FATHER    Mrs.'Hemans 259 

THE  OLD  FOLKS'  BOOM ^ 262 

GOOD  FROM  EVIL J.'G.  WhiUier 264 

BEAUTY  AND  DUTY Lucy  Hooper 265 

EXCELSIOR Longfellow 265 

A  FAREWELL Charles  Kingsley.   ...  267 

PART    VI. 

THE    END. 

DEATH  OF  THE  NEWLY  BAPTIZED     .    .    .    Keble. 271 

LITTLE  BESSIE Mdoclies  for  Childhood.  .  272 

THE  LOST  LITTLE  ONE Rev.  W.  Calvert.     ...  274 

RESIGNATION Longfellow 276 

THE  ALPINE  SHEPHERD Maria  Lowell.    ....  279 

GOING  HOME 281 

"OF  SUCH  is  THE  KINGDOM  OF  HEAVEN"    Mrs.  Oilman 283 

LITTLE  PILGRIMS J.  Edmeston 284 

CHILDREN'S  PRAISES 284 

THE  SICK  CHILD Barry^CmwwalL      ...  286 

A  MOTHER'S  KECOMPENSE Rev.  W.  Calvert.     .    .    .  287 


PART    I. 


CHILDREN. 


THE    BABY. 

ANOTHER  little  wave 
Upon  the  sea  of  life ; 

Another  soul  to  save 
Amid  its  toil  and  strife. 


MY   BABY. 

Two  more  little  feet 

To  walk  the  dusty  road  ; 
To  choose  where  two  paths  meet, 

The  narrow  and  the  broad. 

Two  more  little  hands 

To  work  for  good  or  ill ; 
Two  more  little  eyes, 

Another  little  will. 

Another  heart  to  love, 

Receiving  love  again ; 
And  so  the  baby  came, 

A  thing  of  joy  and  pain. 

PROVIDENCE  JOURNAL. 


MY    BABY. 

CHEEKS  as  soft  as  July  peaches,  — 
Lips  whose  velvet  scarlet  teaches 
Poppies  paleness,  —  round,  large  eyes, 
Ever  great  with  new  surprise,— 
Minutes  filled  with  shadeless  gladness,  - 
Minutes  just  as  brimmed  with  sadness, 
Happy  smiles  and  wailing  cries, 
Crows  and  laughs  and  tearful  eyes, 
Lights  and  shadows,  swifter  born 
Than  on  wind-swept  autumn  corn, 


MY    BABY. 

Ever  some  new  tiny  notion, 
Making  every  limb  all  motion, 
Catchings  up  of  legs  and  arms, 
Throwings  back  and  small  alarms, 
Clutching  fingers,  —  straitening  jerks, 
Twining  feet  whose  each  toe  works, 
Kickings  up  and  straining  risings, 
Mother's  ever-new  surprisings, 
Hands  all  wants  and  looks  all  wonder 
At  all  things  the  heavens  under, 
Tiny  scorns  of  smiled  reprovings 
That  have  more  of  love  than  lovings, 
Mischiefs  done  with  such  a  winning 
Archness  that  we  prize  such  sinning  ; 
Breakings  dire  of  plates  and  glasses, 
Graspings  small  at  all  that  passes ; 
Pullings  off  of  all  that 's  able 
To  be  caught  from  tray  or  table ; 
Silences,  —  small  meditations, 
Deep  as  thoughts  of  cares  for  nations, 
Breaking  into  wisest  speeches 
In  a  tongue  that  nothing  teaches, 
All  the  thoughts  of  whose  possessing 
Must  be  wooed  to  light  by  guessing  ; 
Slumbers,  —  such  sweet  angel-seemings 
That  we  'd  ever  have  such  dreamings, 
Till  from  sleep  we  see  thee  breaking, 
And  we  'd  always  have  thee  waking  ; 
Wealth  for  which  we  know  no  measure, 
Pleasure  high  above  all  pleasure, 


A   ROCKING   HYMN. 

Gladness  brimming  over  gladness, 
Joy  in  care,  —  delight  in  sadness, 
Loveliness  beyond  completeness, 
Sweetness  distancing  all  sweetness, 
Beauty  all  that  beauty  may  be, 
That's  May  Bennett,  —  that's  my  baby. 

W.  C.  BENNETT. 


THE    BABIE. 

NAE  shooii  to  hide  her  tiny  tae, 
Nae  stocking  on  her  feet ; 

Her  supple  ankles  white  as  snaw, 
Or  early  blossoms  sweet. 

Her  simple  dress  of  sprinkled  pink, 
Her  double  dimpled  chin, 

Her  puckered  lip  and  baumy  mow, 
With  na  one  tooth  between. 

Her  een,  sae  like  her  mither's  een, 
Two  gentle  liquid  things  ; 

Her  face  is  like  an  angel's  face,  — 
We  're  glad  she  has  no  wings. 

She  is  the  budding  o'  our  love 

A  giftie  God  gie'd  us  ; 
We  munna  luve  the  gift  ow'r  weel, 

'T  wad  be  nae  blessing  thus. 


A   CRADLE   SONG. 


A    CRADLE    SONG. 

SOFT  be  the  hour  of  thy  sleeping, 

Little  one  mine,  dear  little  one  mine  ; 
Safe,  gentle  lamb,  be  thy  keeping, 
In  the  arms  of  the  Shepherd  divine  ; 
Fond  as  thy  mother's  love, 
Yet  there  is  One  above 

Loves  thee  still  dearer, 
And  —  when  for  thee  she  prays 
Grace,  peace,  and  happy  days  — 
Bends  down  to  hear  her. 

Glad  be  the  hour  of  thy  waking, 

Little  one  mine,  dear  little  one  mine, 
God  grant  that  the  pangs  of  heart-breaking 
Never  visit  that  bosom  of  thine. 
God  grant  thy  stream  of  life, 
Unvexed  by  guilt  and  strife, 

Gently  may  flow ; 
And  when  the  time  shall  come, 
To  thy  eternal  home 

'T  is  thine  to  go, 
Calm  be  the  hour  of  thy  dying, 
Loved  one  of  mine,  dear  loved  one  of  mine  ; 
Untrammelled  thy  spirit,  when  flying 
To  the  land  where  the  holy  ones  shine. 

REV.  W.  CALVERT. 


CRADLE   SONG. 


CRADLE    SONG. 

SLEEP,  baby,  sleep ! 

Thy  father  watches  the  sheep, 
Thy  mother  is  shaking  the  dream-land  tree, 
And  down  falls  a  little  dream  on  thee  ; 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

The  large  stars  are  the  sheep, 
The  little  stars  are  the  lambs,  I  guess, 
The  fair  moon  is  the  shepherdess  ; 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Our  Saviour  loves  his  sheep  ; 
He  is  the  Lamb  of  God  on  high, 
Who  for  our  sakes  came  down  to  die. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

I  '11  buy  for  thee  a  sheep, 
With  a  golden  bell  so  fine  to  see, 
And  it  shall  frisk  and  play  with  thee, 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Arid  cry  not  like  a  sheep  ; 


LULLABY. 

Else  will  the  sheep-dog  bark  and  whine, 
And  bite  this  naughty  child  of  mine. 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

Away  !  and  tend  the  sheep. 
Away,  thou  black  dog,  fierce  and  wild, 
And  do  not  wake  my  little  child ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

SONG  FROM  THE  GERMAN. 


LULLABY. 

LULLABY  !  0  lullaby  ! 
Baby,  hush  that  little  cry ! 

Light  is  dying, 

Bats  are  flying  — 
Bees  to-day  with  work  have  done  ; 
So,  till  comes  the  morrow's  sun, 
Let  sleep  kiss  those  bright  eyes  dry  ! 

Lullaby!  0  lullaby  ! 

Lullaby!  0  lullaby  ! 
Hushed  are  all  things  far  and  nigh  ; 
Flowers  are  closing, 
Birds  reposing, 

All  sweet  things  with  life  have  done. 
Sweet,  till  dawns  the  morning  sun, 
Sleep  then  kiss  those  blue  eyes  dry  ! 
Lullaby!  0  lullaby  ! 


WM.  C.  BENNETT. 


10  A  ROCKING    HYMN. 


A    ROCKING    HYMN. 

SWEET  baby,  sleep  ;  what  ails  my  dear  ; 
What  ails  my  darling  thus  to  cry  ? 
Be  still,  my  child,  and  lend  thine  ear, 
To  hear  me  sing  thy  lullaby. 

My  pretty  lamb,  forbear  to  weep  ; 

Be  still,  my  dear  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

Thou  blessed  soul,  what  canst  thou  fear  ? 
What  thing  to  thee  can  mischief  do  ? 
Thy  God  is  now  thy  Father  dear, 
His  holy  Church  thy  mother  too. 

Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep  ; 

Be  still,  my  babe  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

Whilst  thus  thy  lullaby  I  sing, 

For  thee  great  blessings  ripening  be  ; 

Thine  eldest  brother  is  a  King, 

And  hath  a  kingdom  bought  for  thee. 

Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep  ; 

Be  still  my  babe ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 


Sweet  baby,  sleep,  and  nothing  fear, 
For  whosoever  thee  offends, 
By  thy  Protector  threatened  are, 
And  God  !  and  angels  are  thy  friends. 

Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep  ; 

Be  still,  my  babe  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

GEORGE  WITHER. 


THE   PATTER   OF   LITTLE    FEET.  11 


THE    LITTLE    ONES    IN    BED. 

A  ROW  of  little  faces  in  the  bed  ; 
A  row  of  little  hands  upon  the  spread  ; 
A  row  of  little  roguish  eyes  all  closed  ; 
A  row  of  little  naked  feet  exposed. 

A  gentle  mother  leads  them  in  their  praise, 
Teaching  their  feet  to  tread  in  heavenly  ways, 
And  takes  this  lull  in  childhood's  tiny  tide, 
The  little  errors  of  the  day  to  chide. 

Then  tumbling  headlong  into  waiting  beds, 
Beneath  the  sheets  they  hide  their  timid  heads  ; 
Till  slumber  steals  away  their  idle  fears, 
And  like  a  peeping  bud  each  face  appears. 

All  dresp^d  like  angels  in  their  gowns  of  white. 
They '-      -^H  to  the  skies  in  dreams  of  night ; 
And  ^  u<veii  »  -  *  sparkle  in  their  eyes  at  morn, 
And  stolen  graces  all  their  ways  adorn. 


THE    PATTER    OF    LITTLE    FEET. 

UP  with  the  sun  in  the  morning, 
Away  to  the  garden  he  hies, 

To  see  if  the  sleepy  blossoms 
Have  begun  to  open  their  eyes. 


12  THE   PATTER   OF   LITTLE    FEET. 

Running  a  race  with  the  wind, 
With  a  step  as  light  and  fleet, 

Under  my  window  I  hear 
The  patter  of  little  feet. 

Now  to  the  brook  he  wanders 

In  swift  and  noiseless  flight, 
Splashing  the  sparkling  ripples 

Like  a  fairy  water-sprite. 
No  sand  under  fabled  river 

Has  gleams  like  his  golden  hair, 
No  pearly  sea-shell  is  fairer 

Than  his  slender  ankles  bare  ; 
Nor  the  rosiest  stem  of  coral 

That  blushes  in  ocean's  bed 
Is  sweet  as  the  flush  that  follows 

Our  darling's  airy  tread. 

From  a  broad  window  my  neighbor 

Looks  down  on  our  little  cot, 
And  watches  the  "  poor  man's  blessing  " 

I  cannot  envy  his  lot. 
He  has  pictures,  books,  and  music, 

Bright  fountains,  and  noble  trees, 
Flowers  that  blossom  in  roses, 

Birds  from  beyond  the  seas ; 
But  never  does  childish  laughter 

His  homeward  footsteps  greet, 
His  stately  halls  ne'er  echo 

To  the  tread  of  innocent  feet. 


THE   PATTER   OF  LITTLE   FEET.  13 

This  child  is  our  "  speaking  picture," 

A  birdling  that  chatters  and  sings, 
Sometimes  a  sleeping  cherub  — 

(Our  other  one  has  wings,) 
His  heart  is  a  charmed  casket, 

Full  of  all  that 's  cunning  and  sweet, 
And  no  harp-strings  hold  such  music 

As  follows  his  twinkling  feet. 

When  the  glory  of  sunset  opens 

The  highway  by  angels  trod, 
And  seems  to  unbar  the  city 

Whose  builder  and  maker  is  God, 
Close  to  the  crystal  portal, 

I  see.  by  the  gates  of  pearl, 
The  eyes  of  our  other  angel,  — 

A  twin-born  little  girl. 

And  I  ask  to  be  taught  and  directed 

To  guide  his  footsteps  aright, 
So  that  I  be  accounted  worthy 

To  walk  in  sandals  of  light, 
And  hear  amid  songs  of  welcome 

Prom  messengers  trusty  and  fleet. 
On  the  starry  floor  of  heaven, 

The  patter  of  little  feet. 


14  TO   MY   GODCHILD,   ALICE. 

* 
TO    MY    GODCHILD,    ALICE. 

ALICE,  Alice,  little  Alice 

My  new  christened  baby  Alice, 

Can  there  ever  rhymes  be  found 
To  express  my  wishes  for  thee 
In  a  silvery  flowing,  worthy 

Of  that  silver  sound  ? 
Bonnie  Alice,  Lady  Alice, 

Sure,  this  sweetest  name  must  be 
A  true  omen  to  thee,  Alice, 

Of  a  life's  long  melody. 

Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice, 

May'st  thou  prove  a  golden  chalice, 

Filled  with  holiness  like  wine  ; 
With  rich  blessings  running  o'er, 
Yet  replenished  evermore 

From  a  fount  Divine  : 
Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice, 

When  this  future  comes  to  thee, 
In  thy  young  life's  brimming  chalice 

Keep  some  drops  of  balm  for  me  ! 

Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice, 
Mayst  thou  grow  a  goodly  palace, 
Fitly  framed  from  roof  to  floors. 
Pure  unto  the  inmost  centre, 
While  high  thoughts  like  angels  enter 


PEASANT   CHILDREN.  15 

At  the  open  doors : 
Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice, 

When  this  beauteous  sight  I  see, 
In  thy  woman-heart's  wide  palace 

Keep  one  nook  of  love  for  me. 

Alice,  Alice,  little  Alice,  — 

Sure  the  verse  halts  out  of  malice 

To  the  thoughts  it  feebly  bears, 
And  thy  name's  soft  echoes,  ranging 
From  quaint  rhyme  to  rhyme,  are  changing 

Into  silent  prayers. 
God  be  with  thee,  little  Alice, 

Of  His  bounteousness  may  He 
Fill  the  chalice,  build  the  palace, 

Here,  unto  eternity  ! 

MlSS    MULOCH. 


PEASANT    CHILDREN. 

EVERYWHERE,  everywhere, 

Like  the  butterfly's  silver  wings, 
That  are  seen  by  all  in  the  summej1  air, 

We  meet  with  these  beautiful  things ! 
And  the  low,  sweet  lisp  of  the  baby  child 

By  a  thousand  hills  is  heard, 
And  the  voice  of  the  young  heart's  laughter,  wild 

As  the  voice  of  a  singing  bird  ! 


16  PEASANT    CHILDREN. 

The  cradle  rocks  in  the  peasant's  cot, 

As  it  rocks  in  the  noble's  hall, 
And  the  brightest  gift  in  the  loftiest  lot 

Is  a  gift  that  is  given  to  all ; 
For  the  sunny  light  of  childhood's  eyes 

Is  a  boon  like  the  common  air, 
And  like  the  sunshine  of  the  skies, 

It  falleth  everywhere ! 

They  tell  us  that  old  Earth  no  more 

By  angel  feet  is  trod, 
They  bring  not  now  as  they  brought  of  yore 

The  oracles  of  God. 
0,  each  of  these  young  human  flowers 

God's  own  high  message  bears, 
And  we  are  walking  all  our  hours 

With  "  angels  unawares  "  ! 

By  stifling  street  and  breezy  hill 

We  meet  their  spirit  mirth  ; 
That  such  bright  shapes  should  linger  till 

They  take  the  stains  of  earth ! 
0,  play  not  those  a  blessed  part 

To  whom  the  boon  is  given 
To  leave  their  errand  with  the  heart, 

And  straight  return  to  heaven  ! 

MARY  HOWITT. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  PRAYER.  17 


THE    CHILDREN'S   PRAYER. 

BEAUTIFUL  the  children's  faces  ! 

Spite  of  all  that  mars  and  sears : 
To  my  inmost  heart  appealing  ; 
Calling  forth  love's  tenderest  feeling  : 

Steeping  all  my  soul  with  tears. 

Eloquent  the  children's  faces  — 
Poverty's  lean  look,  which  saith, 

Save  us  !  save  us  !  woe  surrounds  us  ; 

Little  knowledge  sore  confounds  us  ; 
Life  is  but  a  lingering  death. 

Give  us  light  amid  our  darkness ; 

Let  us  know  the  good  from  ill ; 
Hate  us  not  for  all  our  blindness ; 
Love  us,  lead  us,  show  us  kindness, 

You  can  make  us  what  you  will. 

We  are  willing ;  we  are  ready  ; 

We  would  learn  if  you  would  teach  ; 
We  have  hearts  that  yearn  towards  duty ; 
We  have  minds  alive  to  beauty ; 

Souls  that  any  height  can  reach. 

Raise  us  by  your  Christian  knowledge : 

Consecrate  to  man  our  powers  ; 
Let  us  take  our  proper  station  ; 
2 


1.8  THE  CHILDREN'S  PRAYER. 

We,  the  rising  generation, 
Let  us  stamp  the  age  as  ours. 

We  shall  be  what  you  will  make  us ;  — 
Make  us  wise,  and  make  us  good : 

Make  us  strong  in  time  of  trial ; 

Teach  us  temperance,  self-denial, 
Patience,  kindness,  fortitude  ! 

Look  into  our  childish  faces ; 

See  ye  not  our  willing  hearts  ? 
Only  love  us,  —  only  lead  us  ; 
Only  let  us  know  you  need  us, 

And  we  all  will  do  our  parts. 

We  are  thousands  —  many  thousands  ! 

Every  day  our  ranks  increase ; 
Let  us  march  beneath  your  banner, 
We,  the  legijon  of  true  honor, 

Combating  for  love  and  peace  ! 

Train  us  !  try  us  !  days  slide  onward, 
They  can  ne'er  be  ours  again  : 

Save  us,  save  !  from  our  undoing  ! 

Save  from  ignorance  and  ruin  ; 
Make  us  worthy  to  be  MEN  ! 

Send  us  to  our  weeping  mothers, 

Angel-stamped  in  heart  and  brow  ; 
We  may  be  our  father's  teachers : 


MY   LITTLE   DAUGHTER'S   SHOES.  19 

We  may  be  the  mightiest  preachers, 
In  the  day  that  dawneth  now  ! 

Such  the  children's  mute  appealing ! 

All  my  inmost  soul  was  stirred ; 
And  my  heart  was  bowed  with  sadness, 
When  a  cry,  like  summer's  gladness, 

Said,  "  The  children's  prayer  is  heard  !  " 

MARY  Ho  WITT. 


MY    LITTLE    DAUGHTER'S    SHOES 

Two  little  rough,  worn,  stubbed  shoes, 

A  plump,  well-trodden  pair, 
With  striped  stockings  thrust  within, 

Lie  just  beside  my  chair. 

Of  very  homely  fabric  they, 

A  hole  is  in  each  toe, 
They  might  have  cost,  when  they  were  new, 

Some  fifty  cents  or  so. 

And  yet  this  little  worn-out  pair 

Is  richer  far  to  me, 
Than  all  the  jewelled  sandals  are 

Of  Eastern  luxury. 

This  mottled  leather,  cracked  with  use, 
Is  satin  in  my  sight, 


20  MY  LITTLE  DAUGHTER'S  SHOES. 

These  little  tarnished  buttons  shine 
With  all  a  diamond's  light. 

Search  through  the  wardrobe  of  the  world  ! 

You  shall  not  find  me  there 
So  rarely  made,  so  richly  wrought. 

So  glorious  a  pair. 

And  why  ?     Because  they  tell  of  her, 

Now  sound  asleep  above, 
Whose  form  is  moving  beauty,  and 

Whose  heart  is  beating  love. 

They  tell  me  of  her  merry  laugh, 
Her  rich,  whole-hearted  glee  ; 

Her  gentleness,  her  innocence, 
And  infant  purity. 

They  tell  me  that  her  wavering  steps 

Will  long  demand  my  aid  ; 
For  the  old  road  of  human  life 

Is  very  roughly  laid. 

High  hills  and  swift  descents  abound, 

And,  on  so  rude  a  way, 
Feet  that  can  wear  these  coverings 

Would  surely  go  astray. 

Sweet  little  girl !  be  mine  the  task 
Thy  feeble  steps  to  tend  ! 


BABY'S  SHOES.  21 

To  be  thy  guide,  thy  counsellor, 
Thy  playmate,  and  thy  friend ! 

And  when  my  steps  shall  faltering  grow, 

And  thine  be  firm  and  strong, 
Thy  strength  shall  lead  my  tottering  age 

In  cheerful  peace  along ! 

C.  J.  SPRAGUK. 


BABY'S    SHOES. 

0  THOSE  little,  those  little  blue  shoes ! 

Those  shoes  that  no  little  feet  use  ! 
0  the  price  were  high 
That  those  shoes  would  buy, 

Those  little  blue  unused  shoes  ! 

For  they  hold  the  small  shape  of  feet 
That  no  more  their  mother's  eyes  meet, 

That,  by  God's  good  will, 

Years  since  grew  still, 
And  ceased  from  their  totter  so  sweet ! 

And  0,  since  that  baby  slept, 

So  hushed  !  how  the  mother  has  kept, 

With  a  tearful  pleasure, 

That  little  dear  treasure, 
And  o'er  them  thought  and  wept ! 


22  AN   ANGEL   IN   THE   HOUSE. 

For  they  mind  her  forevermore 
Of  a  patter  along  the  floor, 

And  blue  eyes  she  sees 

Look  up  from  her  knees, 
With  the  look  that  in  life  they  wore. 

As  they  lie  before  her  there, 
There  babbles  from  chair  to  chair, 

A  little  sweet  face 

That  ?s  a  gleam  in  the  place, 
With  its  little  gold  curls  of  hair. 

Then  0,  wonder  not  that  her  heart 
From  all  else  would  rather  part 

Than  those  tiny  blue  shoes 

That  no  little  feet  use, 
And  whose  sight  makes  such  fond  tears  start. 

W.  C.  BENNETT. 


AN    ANGEL    IN    THE    HOUSE. 

How  sweet  it  were,  if  without  feeble  fright, 

Or  dying  of  the  dreadful  beauteous  sight, 

An  angel  came  to  us,  and  we  could  bear 

To  see  him  issue  from  the  silent  air 

At  evening  in  our  room,  and  bend  on  ours 

His  divine  eyes,  and  bring  us  from  his  bowers 

News  of  dear  friends  and  children  who  have  never 

Been  dead  indeed,  —  as  we  shall  know  forever. 


AN   ANGEL   IN   THE   HOUSE.  23 

Alas  !  we  think  not  what  we  daily  see 
About  our  hearths,  —  angels,  that  are  to  be, 
Or  may  be  if  they  will,  and  we  prepare 
Their  souls  and  ours  to  meet  in  happy  air,  — 
A  child,  a  friend,  a  wife  whose  soft  heart  sings 
In  unison  with  ours,  breathing  its  future  wings. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


PART    II. 

FOR  YOUNG   CHILDREN 


CREEP  BEFORE  YOU  WALK. 

FROM    "  WILLIE   WINKIE." 

CREEP  away,  my  bairnie, 

Creep  before  you  gang, 

Listen  with  both  ears 

To  your  old  Granny's  sang ; 

If  you  go  as  far  as  I, 

You  will  think  the  road  lang, 

Creep  away,  my  bairnie, 

Creep  before  you  gang. 


28  THE   TURTLE-DOVES. 

Creep  away,  niy  bairnie, 
Your  're  too  young  to  learn 
To  tot  up  and  down  yet, 
My  bonnie  wee  bairn  ; 
Better  creeping,  careful, 
Than  falling  with  a  bang, 
Hurting  all  your  wee  brow,  — 
Creep  before  you  gang. 

The  little  birdie  falls 
When  it  tries  too  soon  to  fly, 
Folks  are  sure  to  tumble 
When  they  climb  too  high  ; 
Those  who  do  not  walk  aright 
Are  sure  to  come  to  wrang, — 
Creep  away,  my  bairnie, 
Creep  before  you  gang. 

JAMES  BALLANTYNK. 


THE    TURTLE-DOVES. 

VERY  high  in  the  pine-tree 

The  little  Turtle-dove 
Made  a  pretty  little  nursery, 

To  please  her  little  love. 
She  was  gentle,  she  was  soft, 

And  her  large  dark  eye 


THE   TURTLE-DOYES.  29 

Often  turned  to  her  mate, 
Who  was  sitting  close  by. 

"  Coo,"  said  the  Turtle-dove, 

"  Coo,"  said  she, 
"  0, 1  love  thee,"  said  the  Turtle-dove, 

"  And  I  love  THEE." 
In  the  long,  shady  branches 

Of  the  dark  pine-tree, 
How  happy  were  the  doves, 

In  their  little  nursery. 

The  young  turtle-doves 

Never  quarrelled  in  the  nest ; 
For  they  dearly  loved  each  other, 

Though  they  loved  their  mother  best. 
"  Coo,"  said  the  little  doves, 

"  Coo,"  said  she, 
And  they  played  together  kindly, 

In  the  dark  pine-tree. 

Is  this  nursery  of  yours, 

Little  sister,  little  brother, 
Like  the  Turtle-doves'  nest, — 

Do  you  love  one  another  ? 
Are  you  kind,  are  you  gentle, 

As  children  ought  to  be  ? 
Then  the  happiest  of  nests 

Is  your  own  nursery. 

AUNT  EFFIE'S  RHYMES. 


30  WHAT   I   LCYE. 


WHAT    A    CHILD    HAS. 

THE  snail,  see,  has  a  house  ; 

A  fur  coat  has  the  mouse ; 

The  sparrow  has  its  feathers  brown  ; 

The  butterfly  its  wings  of  down. 

Now  tell  me,  darling,  what  have  you  ? 
"  1  have  clothes,  and  on  each  foot  a  shoe  ; 
Father  and  mother,  life  and  glee  ; 
So  good  has  God  been  unto  me." 

SONGS  FROM  THE  GERMAN 


WHAT   I    LOVE. 

I  LOVE  my  mother's  gentle  kiss, 
I  love  to  join  my  brother's  play, 

I  love  to  walk  with  little  sis, 

And  view  the  shops  and  pictures  gay. 

I  love  my  toys  and  books  to  see, 
I  love  god-mother's  silver  cup, 

But  the  best  thing  of  things  to  me, 
Is  when  my  father  takes  me  up. 

Father,  when  I  'm  as  tall  as  you, 
And  you  are  small  like  little  sis, 

I  '11  lay  you  on  my  shoulder  too, 
And  let  you  feel  how  nice  it  is. 


MRS.  GILMAN. 


LITTLE   RAIN-DROPS.  31 


THE    LITTLE    ANGEL. 

RIGHT  into  our  house  one  day, 

A  dear  little  angel  came  ; 
I  ran  to  him,  and  said  softly, 

"  Little  angel,  what  is  your  name  ?  " 

He  said  not  a  word  in  answer, 

But  smiled  a  beautiful  smile, 
Then  I  said :  "  May  I  go  home  with  you  ? 

Shall  you  go  in  a  little  while  ?  " 

But  mamma  said  :  "  Dear  little  angel, 

Don't  leave  us  !     0,  always  stay  ! 
We  will  all  of  us  love  you  dearly  ! 

Sweet  angel !  0,  don't  go  away !  " 

So  he  stayed,  and  he  stayed,  and  we  loved  him, 
As  we  could  not  have  loved  another  ; 

Do  you  want  to  know  what  his  name  is  r 
His  name  is  —  my  little  brother  ! 

MELODIES  FOB  CHILDHOOD. 


LITTLE    RAIN-DROPS. 

0  WHERE  do  you  come  from, 
You  little  drops  of  rain, 


32  LITTLE   RAIN-DROPS. 

Fitter  patter,  pitter  patter, 
Down  the  window  pane  ? 

They  won't  let  me  walk, 

And  they  won't  let  me  play. 
And  they  won't  let  me  go 

Out  of  doors  at  all  to-day. 

They  put  away  my  playthings, 

Because  I  broke  them  all ; 
And  then  they  locked  up  all  my  bricks, 

And  took  away  my  ball. 

Tell  me,  little  rain-drops, 

Is  that  the  way  you  play,  — 
Pitter  patter,  pitter  patter,  — 

All  the  rainy  day  ? 

They  say  I  'm  very  naughty  : 

But  I  've  nothing  else  to  do 
But  sit  here  at  the  window  ; 

I  should  like  to  play  with  you. 

The  little  rain-drops  cannot  speak  : 

But  pitter-patter-pat 
Means,  "  We  can  play  on  this  side, 

Why  can't  you  play  on  that  ?  " 

AUNT  EFFIE'S  RHYMES. 


IS   IT   YOU  ?  33 


THE    DARLING   LITTLE    GIRL. 

WHO  's  the  darling  little  girl 

Everybody  loves  to  see  ? 
She  it  is  whose  sunny  face 

Is  as  sweet  as  sweet  can  be. 

Who  's  the  darling  little  girl 

Everybody  loves  to  hear  ? 
She  it  is  whose  pleasant  voice 

Falls  like  music  on  the  ear. 

Who  's  the  darling  little  girl 

Everybody  loves  to  know  ? 
She  it  is  whose  arts  and  thoughts 

All  are  pure  as  whitest  snow. 

Who  's  the  darling  little  girl 

Even  Jesus  Christ  can  love  ? 
She  it  is  who,  meek  and  good, 

Daily  grows  like  Him  above. 

MELODIES  FOR  CHILDHOOD. 


IS    IT    YOU? 

THERE  is  a  child,  —  a  boy  or  girl,  — 

I  'm  sorry  it  is  true, — 
Who  does  n't  mind  when  spoken  to  : 

Is  it  ?  —  it  is  n't  you ! 

0  no,  it  can't  be  you  ! 
3 


34  THE   ROBIN-KEDBREASTS. 

I  know  a  child,  —  a  boy  or  girl,  — 

I  'm  loth  to  say  I  do,  — 
Who  struck  a  little  playmate  child  : 

Was  it  ?  —  it  was  n't  you  ! 

I  hope  that  was  n't  you  ! 

I  know  a  child,  —  a  boy  or  girl,  — 

I  hope  that  such  are  few,  — 
Who  told  a  lie  ;  yes,  told  a  lie  ! 

Was  it  ?  —  it  was  n't  you  ! 

It  cannot  be  't  was  you  ! 

There  is  a  boy,  —  I  know  a  boy,  — 
I  cannot  love  him  though,  — 

Who  robs  the  little  birdies'  nests  ; 
Is  it  ?  —  it  can't  be  you  ! 
That  bad  boy  can't  be  you  ! 

A  girl  there  is,  —  a  girl  I  know,  — 

And  I  could  love  her  too, 
But  that  she  is  so  proud  and  vain ; 

Is  it  ?  —  it  can't  be  you  ! 

That  surely  is  n't  you  ! 

MRS.  GOODWIN. 


THE    ROBIN-REDBREASTS. 

Two  Robin-redbreasts  built  their  nests 
Within  a  hollow  tree  ; 


GOOD   MORNING.  35 

The  hen  sat  quietly  at  home, 

The  cock  sang  merrily  ; 
And  all  the  little  young  ones  said : 

"  Wee,  wee,  wee,  wee,  wee,  wee." 

One  day  (the  sun  was  warm  and  bright, 

And  shining  in  the  sky) 
Cock-robin  said  :  "  My  little  dears, 

'T  is  time  you  learned  to  fly  ;  " 
And  all  the  little  young  ones  said  : 

"  I  '11  try,  I  '11  try,  I  '11  try." 

I  know  a  child,  —  and  who  she  is 

I  '11  tell  you  by  and  by,  — 
When  mamma  says  :  "  Do  this,"  or  "  that," 

She  says  :  "  What  for  ?  "  and  "  Why  ?  " 
She  'd  be  a  better  child  by  far 

If  she  would  say  :  "  I  '11  try." 

AUNT  EFFIE'S  RHYMES. 


GOOD   MORNING. 

"  0, 1  am  so  happy  !  "  a  little  girl  said, 

As  she  sprang,  like  a  lark,  from  her  low  trundle-bed  ; 

"  'T  is  morning,  bright  morning :  good  morning,  papa. 

0  give  me  one  kiss  for  good  morning,  mamma : 

Only  just  look  at  my  pretty  canary, 

Chirping  his  sweet  good  morning  to  Mary. 


36  GOOD   MORNING. 

The  sun  is  peeping  straight  into  my  eyes,  — 
Good  morning  to  you,  Mister  Sun,  for  you  rise 
Early  to  wake  up  my  birdie  and  me, 
And  make  us  as  happy  as  happy  can  be." 

"  Happy  you  may  be,  my  dear  little  girl ;  " 

And  the  mother  stroked  softly  each  clustering  curl : 

"  Happy  you  can  be  ;  but  think  of  the  One 

Who  wakened,  this  morning,  both  you  and  the  sun.' 

The  little  girl  turned  her  bright  eyes  with  a  nod  : 

"  Mamma,  may  I  say  '  Good  morning  '  to  God  ?  " 

"  Yes,  little  darling  one,  surely  you  may ; 

Kneel,  as  you  kneel  every  morning  to  pray." 

Mary  knelt  solemnly  down,  with  her  eyes 

Looking  up  earnestly  into  the  skies  ; 

And  two  little  hands,  that  were  folded  together, 
Softly  she  laid  on  the  lap  of  her  mother : 
"  Good  morning,  dear  Father  in  heaven,"  she  said  ; 
"  I  thank  Thee  for  watching  my  snug  little  bed ; 
For  taking  good  care  of  me  all  the  dark  night, 
And  waking  me  up  with  the  beautiful  light. 
0  keep  me  from  naughtiness  all  the  long  day, 
Dear  Saviour,  who  taught  little  children  to  pray  !  " 

An  angel  looked  down  in  the  sunshine  and  smiled, 
But  she  saw  not  the  angel,  —  that  beautiful  child  ! 


GOD   MADE   ME.  87 


I    WILL    BE    GOOD    TO-DAY. 

"  I  WILL  be  good,  dear  mother," 

I  heard  a  sweet  child  say  ; 
"  I  will  be  good  ;  now  watch  me,  — 

I  will  be  good  all  day." 

She  lifted  up  her  bright  young  eyes, 
With  a  soft  and  pleasing  smile ; 

Then  a  mother's  kiss  was  on  her  lips, 
So  pure  and  free  from  guile. 

And  when  night  came,  that  little  one 

In  kneeling  down  to  pray, 
Said,  in  a  soft  and  whispering  tone  : 

"  Have  I  been  good  to-day  ?  " 

0,  many,  many  bitter  tears, 
'T  would  save  us,  did  we  say, 

Like  that  dear  child,  with  earnest  heart 
"  I  will  be  good  to-day." 


GOD    MADE    ME. 

I  NOW  am  but  a  little  child  ; 

My  hands  are  weak,  my  strength  is  small ; 
Yet  I  can  seek,  and  I  can  love, 

The  Lord  Almighty,  God  of  all. 


38  LITTLE   DANDELION. 

He  gave  my  life  to  me  at  first ; 

He  loves  the  little  child  He  made  ; 
He  keeps  me  safe  through  all  the  day, 

And  guards  me  when  in  sleep  I  'm  laid. 

If  I  obey  and  love  His  law, 

He  '11  teach  me  all  I  need  to  know ; 

And  take  me  in  His  arms  on  high 
When  I  have  lived  my  life  below. 

HYMNS  FOR  YOUNG  CHILDREN. 


LITTLE 


DANDELION. 


GAY  little  Dandelion 

Lights  up  the  meads, 
Swings  on  her  slender  foot, 

Telleth  her  beads. 
Lists  to  the  robin's  note 

Poured  from  above  ; 
Wise  little  Dandelion 

Asks  not  for  love. 

Cold  lie  the  daisy  banks, 
Clad  but  in  green, 

Where,  in  the  days  agone, 
Bright  hues  were  seen. 

Wild  pinks  are  slumbering, 
Yiolets  delay ; 


LITTLE   DANDELION.  39 

True  little  Dandelion 
Greeteth  the  May. 

Brave  little  Dandelion  ! 

Fast  falls  the  snow, 
Bending  the  daffodil's 

Haughty  head  low. 
Under  that  fleecy  tent, 

Careless  of  cold, 
Blithe  little  Dandelion 

Counteth  her  gold. 

Meek  little  Dandelion 

Groweth  more  fair, 
Till  dries  the  amber  dew 

Out  from  her  hair. 
High  rides  the  thirsty  sun, 

Fiercely  and  high  ; 
Faint  little  Dandelion 

Closeth  her  eye ! 

Pale  little  Dandelion, 

In  her  white  shroud, 
Heareth  the  angel  breeze 

Call  from  the  cloud  ! 
Tiny  plumes  fluttering, 

Make  no  delay ! 
Little  winged  Dandelion 

Soareth  away ! 


40  LILY   OF   THE   VALLEY. 


LILY    OF    THE    VALLEY. 

COME,  my  love,  and  do  not  spurn 
From  a  little  flower  to  learn ; 
See  the  lily  on  its  bed, 
Hanging  down  its  modest  head, 
While  it  scarcely  can  be  seen, 
Folded  in  its  leaf  of  green. 

Yet  we  love  the  lily  well, 
For  its  sweet  and  pleasant  smell ; 
And  would  rather  call  it  ours, 
Than  many  other  gayer  flowers  ; 
Pretty  lilies  seem  to  be 
Emblems  of  humility. 

Come,  my  love,  and  do  not  spurn 
From  a  little  flower  to  learn  ; 
Let  your  temper  be  as  sweet, 
As  the  lily  at  your  feet ; 
Be  as  gentle,  be  as  mild, 
Be  a  modest,  humble  child. 

'T  is  not  beauty  that  we  prize,  — 
Like  a  summer's  flower  it  dies ; 
But  humility  will  last, 
Fair  and  sweet  when  beauty 's  past ; 
And  the  Saviour  from  above, 
Views  a  humble  child  with  love. 


LADY   MOON.  41 

THE    JOURNEY. 

DEAR  mother,  how  pretty  the  moon  looks  to-night, 

She  was  never  so  cunning  before  ! 
Her  two  little  horns  are  so  sharp  and  so  bright, 

I  hope  she  won't  grow  any  more  ! 

If  I  were  up  there,  with  you  and  my  friends, 

We  'd  have  a  nice  rock,  do  you  see ; 
We  'd  sit  in  the  middle,  and  hold  at  both  ends, 

0,  what  a  bright  cradle  't  would  be  ! 

We  'd  call  to  the  stars  to  get  out  of  our  way, 
Lest  we  should  rock  over  their  toes  ; 

And  then  we  would  stay  till  the  dawn  of  day, 
And  see  where  the  pretty  moon  goes. 

And  then  we  would  float  through  the  beautiful  skies, 
And  then  through  bright  clouds  we  would  roam, 

And  see  the  sun  set,  and  see  the  sun  rise, 
And  on  the  next  rainbow  come  home. 

(CHOICE 


LADY   MOON. 
r) 

"  I  see  the  Moon,  and  the  Moon  sees  me, 
God  bless  the  Moon,  and  God  bless  me." —  Old  Rhyme. 

LADY  Moon,  Lady  Moon,  where  are  you  roving  ? 

Over  the  sea. 
Lady  Moon,  Lady  Moon,  whom  are  you  loving  ? 

All  that  love  me. 


42  LADY   BIRD. 

Are  you  not  tired  with  rolling,  and  never 

Resting  to  sleep  ? 
Why  look  so  pale,  and  so  sad,  as  forever 

Wishing  to  weep  ? 

Ask  me  not  this,  little  child,  if  you  love  me  ; 

You  are  too  bold  ; 
I  must  obey  my  dear  Father  above  me, 

And  do  as  I  'm  told. 

Lady  Moon,  Lady  Moon,  where  are  you  roving? 

Over  the  sea. 
Lady  Moon,  Lady  Moon,  whom  are  you  loving  ? 

All  that  love  me. 

R.  M.  MlLNES. 


LADY    BIRD. 

LADY  bird !  lady  bird !  fly  away  home, 
The  field-mouse  has  gone  to  her  nest, 

The  daisies  have  shut  up  their  sweet,  sleepy  eyes, 
And  the  bees  and  the  birds  are  at  rest. 

Lady  bird !  lady  bird  !  fly  away  home, 
The  glow-worm  is  lighting  her  lamp, 

The  dew 's  falling  fast,  and  your  fine  speckled  wings 
Will  be  wet  with  the  close-clinging  damp. 


THE   WATCH-DOG.        .  43 

Lady  bird !  lady  bird  !  fly  away  home, 

The  fairy  bells  tinkle  afar, 
Make  haste,  or  they  '11  catch  you,  and  harness  you  fast, 

With  a  cobweb,  to  Oberon's  car. 

CHOICE  POEMS. 


THE    WATCH-DOG. 

FROM  "WILLIE  WINKIE." 

Bow-wow-wow  ! 

It 's  the  great  watch-dog, 

I  ken  by  his  honest  bark  ; 

Bow-wow-wow  ! 

Says  the  great  watch-dog 

When  he  hears  a  foot  in  the  dark. 

Not  a  breath  can  stir 
But  he  's  up  with  a  whirr  ! 
And  a  big  bow-wow  gives  he  ; 
And,  with  tail  on  end, 
He  '11  the  house  defend 
Far  better  than  lock  or  key. 

When  we  sleep  sound, 

He  takes  his  round, 

A  sentry  o'er  us  all. 

Through  the  long,  dark  night, 

Till  broad  daylight, 

He  scares  the  thieves  from  our  wall. 


44  LITTLE    CHILDREN,  LOVE   ONE   ANOTHER. 

But  through  the  whole  day 
With  the  bairns  he  '11  play, 
And  gambol  in  the  sun  ; 
On  his  back  astride 
They  may  safely  ride, 
For  well  he  loves  their  fun. 

By  all  he  's  kenned 

As  a  faithful  friend, 

No  flattering  tongue  has  he  ; 

And  we  may  all  learn 

From  the  great  watch-dog 

Both  faithful  and  fond  to  be. 

ALEXANDER  SMART. 


LITTLE   CHILDREN,  LOVE   ONE  ANOTHER. 

A  LITTLE  girl,  with  a  happy  look, 

Sat  slowly  reading  a  ponderous  book, 

All  bound  with  velvet,  and  edged  with  gold, 

And  its  weight  was  more  than  a  child  could  hold ; 

Yet  dearly  she  loved  to  ponder  it  o'er, 

And  every  day  she  prized  it  more  ; 

For  it  said, —  and  she  looked  at  her  smiling  mother, 

It  said  :  "  Little  children,  love  one  another." 

She  thought  it  was  beautiful  in  the  book, 
And  the  lesson  home  to  her  heart  she  took. 
She  walked  on  her  way  with  a  trusting  grace, 
And  a  dovelike  look  in  her  meek  young  face, 


BEING   KIND   AND   AFFECTIONATE.  45 

Which  said,  just  as  plain  as  words  could  say  : 
The  Holy  Bible  I  must  obey  ; 
So,  mamma,  I  '11  be  kind  to  my  darling  brother, 
For  "  little  children  must  love  each  other." 

I  am  sorry  he  's  naughty  and  will  not  play, 

But  I  '11  love  him  still ;  for  I  think  the  way 

To  make  him  gentle  and  kind  to  me 

Will  be  better  shown,  if  I  let  him  see 

I  strive  to  do  what  I  think  is  right. 

And  thus,  when  we  kneel  in  prayer  to-night, 

I  will  clasp  my  arms  about  my  brother, 

And  say  :  "  Little  children,  love  one  another." 

The  little  girl  did  as  her  Bible  taught, 

And  pleasant,  indeed,  was  the  change  it  wrought ; 

For  the  boy  looked  up  in  glad  surprise, 

To  meet  the  light  of  her  loving  eyes  : 

His  heart  was  full ;  he  could  not  speak, 

But  he  pressed  a  kiss  on  his  sister's  cheek  ; 

And.  God  looks  down  on  the  happy  mother 

Whose  "  little  children  loved  one  another." 


BEING  KIND  AND  AFFECTIONATE. 

THE  God  of  heaven  is  pleased  to  see 
A  little  family  agree  ; 
And  will  not  slight  the  praise  they  bring, 
When  loving  children  join  to  sing. 


46  NOT   READY   FOR   SCHOOL. 

For  love  and  kindness  please  him  more 
Than  if  we  give  him  all  our  store  ; 
And  children  here,  who  dwell  in  love, 
Are  like  his  happy  ones  above. 

The  gentle  child,  who  tries  to  please, 
Dislikes  to  quarrel,  fret,  and  tease, 
And  would  not  say  an  angry  word,— 
That  child  is  pleasing  to  the  Lord. 

Great  God  !  forgive  whenever  we 
Forget  thy  will  and  disagree  ; 
And  grant  that  each  of  us  may  find 
The  sweet  delight  of  being  kind. 


NOT   READY    FOR    SCHOOL. 

PRAY,  where  is  my  hat,  —  it  is  taken  away. 

And  my  shoe-strings  are  all  in  a  knot ; 
I  can't  find  a  thing  where  it  should  be  to-day, 

Though  I  ?ve  hunted  in  every  spot. 

Do,  Rachel,  just  look  for  my  Atlas  up  stairs, 

My  JSsop  is  somewhere  there  too  ; 
And  sister,  just  brush  down  these  troublesome  hairs, 

And  mother  just  fasten  my  shoe. 


NOT   READY   FOR   SCHOOL.  47 

And  sister,  beg  father  to  write  an  excuse, 

But  stop,  he  will  only  say  "  No  "  ; 
And  go  on  with  a  smile,  and  keep  reading  the  news, 

While  everything  bothers  me  so. 

My  satchel  is  heavy,  and  ready  to  fall, 
This  old  pop-gun  is  breaking  my  map  ; 

I  '11  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  pop-gun  or  ball, 
There 's  no  playing  for  such  a  poor  chap. 

The  town-clock  will  strike  in  a  minute,  I  fear, 

Then  away  to  the  foot  I  must  sink ; 
There  —  look  at  my  Carpenter  tumbled  down  here, 

And  my  Worcester  covered  with  ink. 

I  wish  I  'd  not  lingered  at  breakfast  the  last, 
Though  the  toast  and  the  butter  were  fine  ; 

I  think  that  our  Edward  must  eat  pretty  fast, 
To  be  off  when  I  have  n't  done  mine. 

Now  Edward  and  Henry  protest  they  won't  wait, 
And  beat  on  the  door  with  their  sticks  ; 

I  siippose  they  will  say  /  was  dressing  too  late ; 
To-morrow,  /'//  be  up  at  six. 

MRS.  GILMAN. 


48  BUSY   LITTLE   HUSBANDMAN. 


BUSY    LITTLE    HUSBANDMAN. 

I  'M  a  little  husbandman, 
Work  and  labor  hard  I  can  ; 
I  'm  as  happy  all  the  day 
At  my  work  as  if  't  were  play  : 
Though  I  've  nothing  fine  to  wear. 
Yet  for  that  I  do  not  care. 

When  to  work  I  go  along, 
Singing  loud  my  morning  song, 
With  my  wallet  on  my  back, 
And  my  wagon-whip  to  crack, 
0, 1  'm  thrice  as  happy  then 
As  the  idle  gentleman. 

I  've  a  hearty  appetite, 
And  I  soundly  sleep  at  night ; 
Down  I  lie  content,  and  say 
I  've  been  useful  all  the  day  : 
I  'd  rather  be  a  ploughboy  than 
A  useless  little  gentleman. 


KINDNESS   TO    SERVANTS.  49 

KINDNESS    TO    SERVANTS. 

NURSERY  SONGS  OF  SCOTLAND. 

Now  what  was  that  you  said  to  May 
So  pettishly  yestreen  ? 
0,  well  you  may  feel  shame  to  tell 
How  saucy  you  have  been. 
There  's  nothing  spoils  a  bonny  face 
Like  sulks,  in  old  or  young, 
And  what  can  fit  a  lassie  worse, 
Than  an  ill-bred,  saucy  tongue  ? 

It 's  not  your  part  to  scold  at  May, 

To  you  she  's  aye  been  kind, 

And  oft  she 's  sung  you  to  your  sleep, 

Long,  long  ere  you  can  mind. 

She  cooks  the  meat,  she  does  the  work, 

She  cleans  when  you  but  soil, 

And  what  would  helpless  bairnies  be, 

Without  the  hands  that  toil  ? 

The  kindly  look,  the  gentle  word, 
..Make  friends  of  all  who  live, 
And  give  a  charm  to  every  face 
That  nothing  else  can  give. 
It 's  well  for  bairns  to  have  a  friend, 
Who  watches  them  with  care,  — 
For  when  in  fault,  —  they  learn  from  him 
In  future  to  beware. 

ALEXANDER  SMART. 
3  D 


50  THE   LITTLE   TREE,  ETC. 

THE    LITTLE    TREE 

THAT    WANTED    TO    HAVE    OTHER    LEAVES. 

A  LITTLE  tree  stood  up  in  the  wood, 

In  bright  and  dirty  weather  ; 
And  nothing  but  needles  it  had  for  leaves, 

From  top  to  bottom  together. 
The  needles  stuck  about, 
And  the  little  tree  spoke  out :  — 

"  My  companions  all  have  leaves 

Beautiful  to  see, 
While  I  've  nothing  but  these  needles  ; 

No  one  touches  me. 
Might  I  have  my  fortune  told, 
All  my  leaves  should  be  pure  gold." 

The  little  tree  's  asleep  by  dark, 

Awake  by  earliest  light ; 
And  now  its  golden  leaves  you  mark  ; 

There  was  a  sight ! 

The  little  tree  says  :  "  Now  I  'm  set  high  ; 
No  tree  in  the  wood  has  gold  leaves  but  I." 

And  now  again  the  night  came  back ; 

Through  the  forest  there  walked  a  Jew  ; 
With  great  thick  beard  and  great  thick  sack, 

And  soon  the  gold' leaves  did  view. 


ETC.  51 

He  pockets  them  all,  and  away  does  fare, 
Leaving  the  little  tree  quite  bare. 

The  little  tree  speaks  up  distressed : 

"  Those  golden  leaves  how  I  lament ! 
I  'ni  quite  ashamed  before  the  rest, 

Such  lovely  dress  to  them  is  lent. 
Might  I  bring  one  more  wish  to  pass, 
I  would  have  my  leaves  of  the  clearest  glass." 

The  little  tree  sleeps  again  at  dark, 

And  wakes  with  the  early  light ; 
And  now  its  glass  leaves  you  may  mark  ;  — 

There  was  a  sight ! 

The  little  tree  says :  "  Now  I  'm  right  glad, 
No  tree  in  the  wood  is  so  brightly  clad." 

There  came  up  now  a  mighty  blast, 

And  a  furious  gale  it  blew  ; 
It  swept  among  the  trees  full  fast, 

And  on  the  glass  leaves  it  flew. 
There  lay  the  leaves  of  glass 
All  shivered  on  the  grass. 

The  little  tree  complains  : 

"  My  glass  lies  on  the  ground  ; 
Each  other  tree  remains 

With  its  green  dress  all  round. 
Might  I  but  have  my  wish  once  more, 
I  would  have  of  those  good  green  leaves  good  store." 


52  THE   LITTLE   TREE,   ETC. 

Again  asleep  is  the  little  tree, 

And  early  wakes  to  the  light ; 
He  is  covered  with  green  leaves  fair  to  see,  - 

He  laughs  outright ; 
And  says  :  "  I  am  now  all  nicely  drest, 
Nor  need  be  ashamed  before  the  rest." 

And  now,  with  udders  full, 

Forth  a  wild  she-goat  sprung, 
Seeking  for  herbs  to  pull, 

To  feed  her  young. 

She  sees  the  leaves,  nor  makes  much  talk, 
But  strips  all  clear  to  the  very  stalk. 

The  little  tree  again  is  bare, 

And  thus  to  himself  he  said  : 
"  No  longer  for  my  leaves  I  care, 

Whether  green,  or  yellow,  or  red. 
If  I  had  but  my  needles  again, 
I  would  never  more  scold  or  complain." 

The  little  tree  slept  sad  that  night, 

And  sadly  opened  his  eye  ;  — 
He  sees  himself  in  the  sun's  first  light, 

And  laughs  as  if  he  would  die. 
And  all  the  trees  in  a  roar  burst  out ; 
But  the  little  tree  little  cared  for  their  flout. 

What  made  the  little  tree  laugh  like  mad  ? 
And  what  set  the  rest  in  a  roar  ? 


THE  APPLE  TREE.  53 

In  a  single  night  soon  back  he  had 

Every  needle  he  had  before. 
And  everybody  may  see  them  such ; 
Go  out  and  look,  —  but  do  not  touch. 

Why  not,  I  pray  ? 
They  prick,  some  say. 

RiJCKERT,  TRANS.  BY   DR.  FROTHINGHAM. 


THE    APPLE-TREE. 

OLD  John  had  an  apple-tree,  healthy  and  green, 
Which  bore  the  best  baldwins  that  ever  were  seen, 

So  juicy,  and  mellow,  and  red  ; 
And  when  they  were  ripe,  as  old  Johnny  was  poor, 
He  sold  them  to  children  that  passed  by  his  door 

To  buy  him  a  morsel  of  bread. 

Little  Dick,  his  next  neighbor,  one  often  might  see, 
With  longing  eye  viewing  this  nice  apple-tree, 

And  wishing  an  apple  would  fall ; 
One  day,  as  he  stood  in  the  heat  of  the  sun, 
He  began  thinking  whether  he  might  not  take  one, 

And  then  he  looked  over  the  wall. 

And  as  he  again  cast  his  eye  on  the  tree, 

He  said  to  himself,  "  0,  how  nice  they  would  be, 

So  cool  and  refreshing  to-day  ! 
The  tree  is  so  full,  and  I  'd  only  take  one, 


54  WHO  STOLE    THE   BIRD'S-NEST  ? 

And  old  John  won't  see,  for  he  is  not  at  home, 
And  nobody  is  in  the  way." 

But  stop,  little  boy,  take  your  hand  from  the  bough, 
Remember,  though  old  John  can't  see  you  just  now, 

And  no  one  to  chide  you  is  nigh, 
There  is  ONE,  who  by  night,  just  as  well  as  by  day, 
Can  see  all  you  do,  and  can  hear  all  you  say, 

From  his  glorious  throne  in  the  sky. 

0  then,  little  boy,  come  away  from  the  tree, 
Content,  hot  or  weary,  or  thirsty  to  be, 

Or  anything  rather  than  steal ! 

For  the  great  God,  who  even  through  darkness  can  look, 
Writes  down  every  crime  we  commit,  in  his  book, 

However  we  think  to  conceal. 

JANE  TAYLOK. 


WHO    STOLE    THE    BIRD'S-NEST? 

TE-WHIT  !  te-whit !  te-whee  ! 
Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 
Who  stole  four  eggs  I  laid, 
And  the  nice  nest  I  made  ? 

Not  I,  said  the  cow,  moo-oo  ! 
Such  a  thing  I  'd  never  do. 
I  gave  for  you  a  wisp  of  hay, 


WHO    STOLE   THE   BIRD'S-NEST  ?  55 

And  did  not  take  your  nest  away. 
Not  I,  said  the  cow,  moo-oo  ! 
Such  a  thing  I  'd  never  do. 

Te-whit !  te-whit !  te-whee  ! 
Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 
Who  stole  four  eggs,  I  laid, 
And  the  nice  nest  I  made  ? 

Bob-a-link !  bob-a-link  ! 
Now  what  do  you  think  ? 
Who  stole  a  nest  away 
From  the  plum-tree  to-day  ? 

Not  I,  said  the  dog,  Bow-wow ! 

I  would  n't  be  so  mean  as  that,  now ; 

I  gave  hairs  the  nest  to  make, 

But  the  nest  I  did  not  take. 

Not  I,  said  the  dog,  Bow-wow  ! 

I  would  n't  be  so  mean  as  that,  now  ! 

Te-whit!  te-whit!  te-whee! 
Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 
Who  stole  four  eggs  I  laid, 
And  the  nice  nest  I  made  ? 

Bob-a-link !  Bob-a-link  ! 
Now  what  do  you  think  ? 
Who  stole  a  nest  away, 
From  the  plum-tree  to-day  ? 


56  WHO    STOLE   THE  BIKD'S-NEST  ? 

Coo-coo  !  coo-coo  !  coo-coo  ! 
Let  me  speak  a  word,  too  ; 
Who  stole  that  pretty  nest 
From  little  yellow-breast  ? 

Not  I,  said  the  sheep,  0  no, 
I  would  n't  treat  a  poor  bird  so  ; 
I  gave  the  wool  the  nest  to  line, 
But  the  nest  was  none  of  mine. 
Baa !  baa !  said  the  sheep ;  0  no, 
I  would  n't  treat  a  poor  bird  so. 

Te-whit !  te-whit !  te-whee  ! 
Will  you  listen  to  me  ? 
Who  stole  four  eggs  I  laid, 
And  the  nice  nest  I  made  ? 

Bob-a-link  !  Bob-a-link  ! 
Now  what  do  you  think  ? 
Who  stole  a  nest  away, 
From  the  plum-tree  to-day  ? 

Coo-coo  !  coo-coo  !  coo-coo  ! 
Let  me  speak  a  word,  too, 
Who  stole  that  pretty  nest 
From  little  yellow-breast  ? 

Caw  !  caw  !  cried  the  crow, 
I  should  like  to  know 
What  thief  took  away 
A  bird's  nest  to-day  ? 


WHO    STOLE   THE   BIRD'S-NEST  ?  57 

Cluck !  cluck  !  cluck  !  said  the  hen, 

Don't  ask  me  again, 

Why,  I  have  n't  a  chick 

Would  do  such  a  trick  ; 

We  all  gave  her  a  feather, 

And  she  wove  them  together  ; 

I  'd  scorn  to  intrude 

On  her  and  her  brood. 

Cluck  !  cluck !  said  the  hen, 

Don't  ask  me  again. 

Chirr-a-whirr !  chirr-a-whirr ! 
We  '11  make  a  great  stir ! 
Let  us  find  out  his  name, 
And  all  cry  for  shame ! 

I  would  not  rob  a  bird, 

Said  little  Mary  Green  ; 
I  think  I  never  heard 

Of  anything  so  mean. 
'T  is  very  cruel,  too, 

Said  little  Alice  Neal ; 
I  wonder  if  he  knew 

How  sad  the  bird  would  feel  ? 

A  little  boy  hung  down  his  head, 
And  went  and  hid  behind  the  bed, 
For  he  stole  that  pretty  nest 
From  poor  little  yellow-breast ; 
And  he  felt  so  full  of  shame, 
He  did  n't  like  to  tell  his  name. 

CHOICE  POEMS. 


58  THE  BEETLE. 


THE    BEETLE. 

WHO  'LL  catch  the  Beetle  ? 
"  I,"  says  Peter  Spring, 
"  I  '11  seize  it  by  the  wing, 

I  '11  catch  the  Beetle !  " 

Who  '11  get  a  piece  of  thread  ? 
"I,"  says  Dicky  Bluff, 
"  'I  '11  do  it  quick  enough, 

I  '11  tie  it  round  his  leg." 

Who  '11  run  and  hold  the  string  ? 
"  We  '11  all  take  turns  to  run, 
And  have  some  royal  fun, 

We  '11  all  hold  the  string." 

Who  loves  to  hear  him  buzz  ? 
"  We  do,"  says  Lu  and  Dick, 
"  We  like  this  funny  trick, 

We  love  to  hear  him  buzz  !  " 

But  who  is  coming  along  ? 
A  Giant  large  and  strong, 
Ah,  Peter,  Dick,  and  Lu, 
He 's  looking  right  at  you ! 

Now  towards  you  all  he  springs  ; 
And  ties  your  legs  with  strings  ; 


GIVE   AS   YOU'D   TAKE.  59 

He  ties  them  one  by  one, 
And  tells  you  all  to  run. 

He  cries,  "  Run,  run,  Dick,  Lucy,  and  Peter, 

"  And,  remember,  just  so  you  served  the  Fig-eater  !  " 

MRS.  GILMAN. 


GIVE    AS   YOU'D    TAKE. 

NURSERY   SONGS   OF   SCOTLAND. 

MY  bairnies  dear,  when  you  go  out 
With  other  bairns  to  play, 
Take  heed  of  everything  you  do, 
Of  every  word  you  say  ; 
From  tricky,  wee,  mischievous  loons 
Keep  back,  my  bairns,  keep  back  ; 
And  aye  to  all  such  usage  give 
As  you  would  like  to  take. 

To  twist  the  mouth  and  call  ill  names 

Is  surely  very  bad  ; 

Then  all  such  doings  still  avoid, 

They  'd  make  your  mother  sad. 

To  shield  the  weakly  from  the  strong, 

Be  neither  slow  nor  slack, 

And  aye  to  all  such  usage  give, 

As  you  would  like  to  take. 


60  THE  BIRD'S  FUNERAL. 

A  kindly  word,  a  soothing  look, 

Have  ready  aye  for  all ; 

We  are  one  Maker's  handiwork, 

He  made  us  —  great  and  small  — 

We  're  all  the  children  of  his  care  ; 

0,  then  for  his  dear  sake 

Be  sure  such  usage  still  to  give 

As  you  would  like  to  take. 

ALEXANDER  RODGER. 


THE    BIRD'S    FUNERAL. 

HERE,  in  these  rosy  bowers, 

Sleep,  little  bird  !  we  crave 
A  spot  beneath  the  flowers 

To  dig  thy  early  grave. 

So  charming  was  thy  singing  ! 

Thou  wast  to  us  so  dear, 
Thy  voice  has  ceased  its  ringing, 

And  we  are  weeping  here. 

Sweet  May  waked  all  her  roses 

Thy  thrilling  notes  to  hear  ; 
And  now  with  mourning  posies 

We  strew  thy  silent  bier. 

SONGS  FROM  THE  GERMAN. 


MY  FATHER.  61 


MY    FATHER. 

WHO  took  me  from  my  mother's  arms, 
And,  smiling  at  her  soft  alarms, 
Showed  me  the  world,  and  nature's  charms  ? 

My  father. 

Who  made  me  feel  and  understand 
The  wonders  of  the  sea  and  land, 
And  mark  through  all  the  Maker's  hand  ? 

My  father. 

Who  climbed  with  me  the  mountain  height, 
And  watched  my  look  of  dread  delight, 
While  rose  the  glorious  orb  of  light  ? 

My  father. 

Who,  from  each  flower  and  verdant  stalk, 
Gathered  a  subject  for  our  talk, 
To  fill  the  long,  delightful  walk  ? 

My  father. 

Not  on  a  poor  worm  would  he  tread, 

Nor  strike  the  little  insect  dead  ; 

Who  taught  at  once  my  heart  and  head  ? 

My  father. 

Who  taught  my  early  mind  to  know 
The  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow, 
Creator  of  all  things  below  ? 

My  father. 


62  MY   MOTHER. 

Soon,  and  before  the  mercy-seat, 
Spirits  made  perfect,  —  we  shall  meet ! 
Then  with  what  transports  shall  I  greet 

My  father. 

ANN  TAYLOR. 


MY    MOTHER. 

WHO  fed  me  from  her  gentle  breast, 
And  hushed  me  in  her  arms  to  rest, 
And  on  my  cheek  sweet  kisses  pressed  ? 

My  mother. 

When  sleep  forsook  my  open  eye, 

Who  was  it  sang  sweet  lullaby, 

And  rocked  me  that  I  should  not  cry  ? 

My  mother. 

Who  sat  and  watched  my  infant  head, 
When  sleeping  on  my  cradle  bed, 
And  tears  of  sweet  affection  shed  ? 

My  mother. 

When  pain  and  sickness  made  me  cry, 
Who  gazed  upon  my  heavy  eye, 
And  wept  for  fear  that  I  should  die  ? 

My  mother. 


MY   MOTHER.  63 

Who  dressed  my  doll  in  clothes  so  gay, 
And  taught  me  pretty  how  to  play, 
And  minded  all  I  had  to  say  ? 

My  mother. 

Who  ran  to  help  me  when  I  fell, 
And  would  some  pretty  story  tell, 
Or  kiss  the  place  to  make  it  well  ? 

My  mother. 

Who  taught  my  infant  lips  to  pray, 
And  love  God's  holy  book  and  day, 
And  walk  in  wisdom's  pleasant  way  ? 

My  mother. 

And  can  I  ever  cease  to  be 
Afiootionate  and  kind  to  thee, 
Who  was  so  very  kind  to  me  ? 

My  mother. 

Ah  !  no,  the  thought  I  cannot  bear, 
And  if  God  please  my  life  to  spare, 
I  hope  I  shall  reward  thy  care, 

My  mother. 

When  thou  art  feeble,  old,  and  gray, 
My  healthy  arms  shall  be  thy  stay, 
And  I  will  soothe  thy  pains  away, 

My  mother. 


64  THE   DOCTOR. 

And  when  I  see  thee  hang  thy  head, 
'T  will  be  my  turn  to  watch  thy  bed, 
And  tears  of  sweet  affection  shed, 

My  mother. 

For  God,  who  lives  above  the  skies, 
Would  look  with  sorrow  in  his  eyes, 
If  I  should  ever  dare  despise 

My  mother. 

ANN  TAYLOR. 


THE    DOCTOR. 

FROM   WILLIE   WINKIE. 

0,  DO  not  fear  the  doctor ; 

He  comes  to  make  you  well, 

To  nurse  you  like  a  tender  flower, 

And  pleasant  tales  to  tell ; 

He  brings  the  bloom  back  to  your  cheek, 

The  blithe  blink  to  your  eye, 

An  't  were  not  for  the  doctor, 

My  bonnie  bairn  might  die. 

0,  who  would  fear  the  doctor, 

His  powder  or  his  pill  — 

You  just  a  wee  bit  swallow  take, 

And  there  's  an  end  of  ill. 

He  '11  make  you  sleep  sound  as  a  top, 


THE   HAND-POST.  65 


And  rise  up  like  a  fly,  — 
An  'twere  not  for  the  doctor, 
My  bonnie  bairn  might  die. 

A  kind  man  is  the  doctor, 
As  many  poor  folk  ken  ; 
He  spares  no  toil  by  day  or  night 
To  ease  them  of  their  pain  ; 
And  0,  he  loves  the  bairnies  well 
And  grieves  whene'er  they  cry,  — 
An  't  were  not  for  the  doctor, 
My  bonnie  bairn  might  die. 


ALEXANDER  SMART. 


THE    HAND-POST. 

THE  night  was  dark,  the  sun  was  hid 
Beneath  the  mountain  gray : 

And  not  a  single  star  appeared, 
To  shoot  a  silver  ray. 

Across  the  path  the  owlet  flew, 
And  screamed  along  the  blast, 

And  onward  with  a  quickened  step, 
Benighted  Henry  passed. 

At  intervals,  amid  the  gloom 
A  flash  of  lightning  played, 

And  showed  the  ruts  with  water  filled, 
And  the  black  hedge's  shade. 


66  THE    HAND-POST. 

Again  in  thickest  darkness  plunged, 
He  groped  his  way  to  find  ; 

And  now  he  thought  he  spied  beyond 
A  form  of  horrid  kind. 

In  deadly  white  it  upward  rose, 

Of  cloak  or  mantle  bare, 
And  held  its  naked  arms  across, 

To  catch  him  by  the  hair. 

Poor  Henry  felt  his  blood  run  cold 
At  what  before  him  stood  ; 

But  well,  thought  he,  no  harm,  I  'm  sure. 
Can  happen  to  the  good. 

So  calling  all  his  courage  up, 

He  to  the  goblin  went ; 
And  eager  through  the  dismal  gloom 

His  piercing  eyes  he  bent. 

And  when  he  came  well  nigh  the  ghost 
That  gave  him  such  affright, 

He  clapped  his  hands  upon  his  side, 
And  loudly  laughed  outright. 

For  't  was  a  friendly  hand-post  stood 
His  wand' ring  steps  to  guide  ; 

And  thus  he  found  that  to  the  good 
No  evil  can  betide. 


THE    HAND-POST.  67 

And  well,  thought  he,  one  thing  I  've  learnt, 

Nor  soon  shall  I  forget, 
Whatever  frightens  me  again, 

To  march  straight  up  to  it. 

And  when  I  hear  an  idle  tale 

Of  goblins  and  a  ghost, 
I  '11  tell  of  this  my  lonely  ride, 

And  the  tall,  white  Hand-post. 

ANN  TAYLOR. 


PART    III. 
NATURE. 


THE    BOOK    OF    NATURE. 

THERE  is  a  book,  who  runs  may  read, 
Which  heavenly  truth  imparts, 

And  all  the  lore  its  scholars  need, 
Pure  eyes  and  Christian  hearts. 


72  THE   BEGGAR. 

The  works  of  God  above,  below, 

Within  us,  and  around, 
Are  pages  in  that  book  to  show 

How  God  himself  is  found. 

The  glorious  sky,  embracing  all, 

Is  like  the  Maker's  love, 
Wherewith  encompassed,  great  and  small 

In  peace  and  order  move. 

The  dew  of  heaven  is  like  His  grace, 

It  steals  in  silence  down  ; 
But  where  it  lights,  the  favored  place 

By  richest  fruits  is  known. 

Thou,  who  hast  given  me  eyes  to  see 

And  love  this  sight  so  fair, 
Give  me  a  heart  to  find  out  Thee, 

And  read  Thee  everywhere. 

KEBLE. 


THE    BEGGAR. 


A  BEGGAR  through  the  world  am  I,  — 
From  place  to  place  I  wander  by. 
Fill  up  my  pilgrim's  sc:rip  for  me, 
For  Christ's  sweet  sake  and  charity ! 


THE   BEGGAR.  73 

A  little  of  thy  steadfastness, 

Rounded  with  leafy  gracefulness, 

Old  oak,  give  me, — 

That  the  world's  blasts  may  round  me  blow, 

And  I  yield  gently  to  and  fro, 

While  my  stout-hearted  trunk  below 

And  firm-set  roots  unshaken  be. 

Some  of  thy  stern,  unyielding  might, 

Enduring  still  through  day  and  night 

Rude  tempest-shock  and  withering  blight,  — 

That  I  may  keep  at  bay 

The  changeful  April  sky  of  chance 

And  the  strong  tide  of  circumstance,— 

Give  me,  old  granite  gray. 

Some  of  thy  pensiveness  serene, 

Some  of  thy  never-dying  green, 

Put  in  this  scrip  of  mine,  — 

That  griefs  may  fall  like  snow-flakes  light, 

And  deck  me  in  a  robe  of  white, 

Ready  to  be  an  angel  bright,  — 

0  sweetly-mournful  pine. 

A  little  of  thy  merriment, 
Of  thy  sparkling,  light  content, 
Give  me,  my  cheerful  brook, 
That  I  may  still  be  full  of  glee 
And  gladsomeness,  where'er  I  be, 
Though  fickle  fate  hath  prisoned  me 
In  some  neglected  nook. 


74  GUESS   WHAT   I   HAVE   HEARD. 

Ye  have  been  very  kind  and  good 
To  me,  since  I  've  been  in  the  wood  ; 
Ye  have  gone  nigh  to  fill  my  heart ; 
But  good  by,  kind  friends,  every  one, 
I  've  far  to  go  ere  set  of  sun  ; 
Of  all  good  things  I  would  have  part, 
The  day  was  high  ere  I  could  start, 
And  so  my  journey  's  scarce  begun. 

Heaven  help  me!  how  could  I  forget 

To  beg  of  thee,  dear  violet ! 

Some  of  thy  modesty, 

That  blossoms  here  as  well,  unseen, 

As  if  before  the  world  thou  'dst  been, 

0  give,  to  strengthen  me. 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


GUESS    WHAT    I    HAVE    HEAKD 

DEAR  mother,  guess  what  I  have  heard  ! 

0,  it  will  soon  be  spring ! 
I  'm  sure  it  was  a  little  bird,  — 

Mother  I  heard  him  sing. 

Look  at  this  little  piece  of  green 
That  peeps  out  from  the  snow, 

As  if  it  wanted  to  be  seen,  — 
'T  will  soon  be  spring,  I  know. 


GUESS   WHAT   I   HAVE  HEARD.  75 

And  0,  come  here,  come  here  and  look  ! 

How  fast  it  runs  along  !  — 
Here  is  a  cunning  little  brook  ; 

0,  hear  its  pretty  song  ! 

1  know  't  is  glad  the  winter  's  gone 

That  kept  it  all  so  still, 
For  now  it  merrily  runs  on, 

And  goes  just  where  it  will. 

I  feel  just  like  the  brook,  I  know  ; 

It  says,  it  seems  to  me,  — 
u  Good  by,  cold  weather,  ice,  and  snow  ; 

Now  girls  and  brooks  are  free.'' 

I  love  to  think  of  what  you  said, 

Mother,  to  me  last  night, 
Of  this  great  world  that  God  has  made, 

So  beautiful  and  bright. 

And  now  it  is  the  happy  Spring 

No  naughty  thing  I  '11  do  ; 
I  would  not  be  the  only  thing 

That  is  not  happy,  too. 

MRS.  FOLLEN. 


"  BE  kind  to  all  you  chance  to  meet, 
In  field,  or  lane,  or  crowded  street ; 
Anger  and  pride  are  both  unwise  — 
Vinegar  never  catches  flies." 


76  WHAT   THEY   ARE   DOING. 


WHAT    THEY    ARE    DOING. 

"  LITTLE  Sparrow,  come  and  say 
What  you  're  doing  all  the  day  ?  " 

"  0, 1  fly  over  hedges  and  ditches  to  find 
A  fat  little  worm,  or  a  fly  to  my  mind ; 
And  I  carry  it  back  to  my  own  pretty  nest 
And  the  dear  little  pets  that  I  warm  with  my  breast ; 
For  until  I  can  teach  them  the  way  how  to  fly, 
If  I  were  not  to  feed  them,  my  darlings  would  die : 
How  glad  they  all  are  when  they  see  me  come  home  ! 
And  each  of  them  chirps,  '  Give  me  some  !  Give  me 
some  ! '  " 

"  Little  Lamb,  come  here  and  say 
What  you  're  doing  all  the  day  ?  " 

"  Long  enough  before  you  wake, 
Breakfast  I  am  glad  to  take, 
In  the  meadow  eating  up 
Daisy,  cowslip,  buttercup  ; 
Then  about  the  fields  I  play, 
Frisk  and  scamper  all  the  day ; 
When  I  'm  thirsty  I  can  drink 
Water  at  the  river's  brink  ; 
When  at  night  I  go  to  sleep, 
By  my  mother  I  must  keep  ; 
I  am  safe  enough  from  cold 
At  her  side  within  the  fold." 


WHAT   THEY   ARE   DOING.  77 

"  Little  Bee,  come  here  and  say 
What  you  're  doing  all  the  day  ?  " 

"  0,  every  day,  and  all  day  long, 
Among  the  flowers  you  hear  my  song  : 
I  creep  in  every  bud  I  see, 
And  all  the  honey  is  for  me  ; 
I  take  it  to  the  hive  with  care 
And  give  it  to  my  brothers  there, 
That  when  the  winter  time  comes  on, 
And  all  the  flowers  are  dead  and  gone, 
And  when  the  wind  is  cold  and  rough, 
The  busy  bees  may  have  enough." 

"  Little  Fly,  come  here  and  say 
What  you  're  doing  all  the  day  ?  " 

"  0, 1  am  a  gay  and  merry  fly, 

I  never  do  anything  —  no,  —  not  I. 

I  go  where  I  like,  and  I  stay  where  I  please, 

In  the  heat  of  sun,  or  the  shade  of  the  trees  ; 

On  the  window-pane,  or  the  cupboard  shelf; 

And  I  care  for  nothing  except  myself : 

I  cannot  tell,  it  is  very  true, 

When  the  winter  comes  what  I  mean  to  do  ; 

And  I  very  much  fear,  when  I  'm  getting  old, 

I  shall  starve  with  hunger,  or  die  of  cold." 

EIIYMES  FOR  LITTLE  ONES. 


78  THE   GLADNESS   OF   NATURE. 


THE    GLADNESS    OF    NATURE. 

Is  this  a  time  to  be  cloudy  and  sad, 

When  our  mother  Nature  laughs  around  ; 

When  even  the  deep  blue  heavens  look  glad, 

And  gladness  breathes  from  the  blossoming  ground  ? 

There  are  notes  of  joy  from  the  hang-bird  and  wren, 
And  the  gossip  of  swallows  through  all  the  sky  ; 
The  ground-squirrel  gayly  chirps  by  his  den. 
And  the  wilding  bee  hums  merrily  by. 

The  clouds  are  at  play  in  the  azure  space, 

And  their  shadows  at  play  on  the  bright  green  vale  ; 

And  here  they  stretch  to  the  frolic  chase, 

And  there  they  roll  on  the  easy  gale. 

There  's  a  dance  of  leaves  in  that  aspen  bower  ; 
There  's  a  titter  of  wind  in  that  beechen  tree  ; 
There  's  a  smile  on  the  fruit,  and  a  smile  on  the  flower, 
And  a  laugh  from  the  brook  that  runs  to  the  sea. 

And  look  at  the  broadfaced  sun,  how  he  smiles 
On  the  dewy  earth  that  smiles  in  his  ray, 
On  the  breaking  waters  and  gay  young  isles  ;  — 
Ay,  look  !  and  he  '11  smile  thy  gloom  away. 

BRYANT. 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   GRASS.  79 


WHAT    I    WOULD    BE. 

I  WOULD  not  be  an  eagle  fierce, 

With  nest  upon  a  rock, 
Stealing  the  harmless  little  lambs 

From  the  poor  shepherd's  flock. 

I  would  not  be  a  moping  owl, 

Snoring  in  bed  all  day, 
And  pouncing  on  the  mice  at  night, 

When  they  come  out  to  play. 

$To  —  I  would  be  a  lark,  and  mount 

From  the  daisy-spangled  sod, 
With  twinkling  wings  to  Heaven's  gate, 

Singing  the  praise  of  God. 

SONGS   FROM   THE    GERMAN. 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    GRASS. 

HERE  I  come,  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  : 

By  the  dusty  road-side, 

On  the  sunny  hill-side, 

Close  by  the  noisy  brook, 

In  every  shady  nook, 
I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 


80  THE   SONG   OF   THE   GRASS. 

Here  I  come,  creeping,  creeping  everywhere 

All  around  the  open  door, 

Where  sit  the  aged  poor, 

There  where  the  children  play, 

In  the  bright  and  merry  May, 
I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come,  creeping,  creeping  everywhere 

In  the  noisy  city  street 

My  pleasant  face  you  '11  meet, 

Cheering  the  sick  at  heart, 

Toiling  his  busy  part, 
Silently  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come,  creeping,  creeping  everywhere 

You  cannot  see  me  coming, 

Nor  hear  my  low  sweet  humming, 

For  in  the  starry  night, 

And  the  glad  morning  light, 
I  come  quietly,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come,  creeping,  creeping  everywhere : 

More  welcome  than  the  flowers, 

In  summer's  pleasant  hours. 

The  gentle  cow  is  glad, 

And  the  merry  bird  not  sad 
To  see  me  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come,  creeping,  creeping  everywhere : 
When  you  're  numbered  with  the  dead, 
In  your  still  and  narrow  bed, 


BIRDS.  81 

Iii  the  happy  Spring  I  '11  come, 
And  deck  your  silent  home, 
Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come,  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  : 

My  humble  song  of  praise 

Most  gratefully  I  raise 

To  Him  at  whose  command 

I  beautify  the  land, 
Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 

JOHN  S.  DWIGHT. 


BIRDS. 

0,  THE  sunny  summer  time  ! 

0,  the  leafy  summer  time  ! 
Merry  is  the  bird's  life, 

When  the  year  is  in  its  prime ! 
Birds  are  by  the  waterfalls 

Dashing  in  the  rainbow  spray ; 
Everywhere,  everywhere, 

Light  and  lovely  there  are  they ! 
Birds  are  in  the  forest  old, 

Building  in  each  hoary  tree  ; 
Birds  are  on  the  green  hills  ; 

Birds  are  by  the  sea  ! 

4*     "  ] 


82  BIRDS. 

On  the  moor  and  in  the  fen, 

'Mong  the  whortleberries  green  ; 
In  the  yellow  furze-bush, 

There  the  joyous  bird  is  seen  ; 
In  the  heather,  on  the  hill ; 

All  among  the  mountain  thyme  ; 
By  the  little  brook-sides, 

Where  the  sparkling  waters  rtiime  ; 
In  the  crag  ;  and  on  the  peak, 

Splintered,  savage,  wild,  and  bare, 
There  the  bird  with  wild  wing 

Wheeleth  through  the  air. 

Wheeleth  through  the  breezy  air, 

Singing,  screaming  in  his  flight, 
Calling  to  his  bird-mate, 

In  a  troubleless  delight ! 
In  the  green  and  leafy  wood, 

Where  the  branching  ferns  up-curl, 
Soon  as  is  the  dawning, 

Wakes  the  mavis  and  the  merle ; 
Wakes  the  cuckoo  on  the  bough  ; 

Wakes  the  jay  with  ruddy  breast ; 
Wakes  the  mother  ringdove 

Brooding  on  her  nest ! 

0,  the  sunny  summer-time  ! 

0,  the  leafy  summer-time  ! 
Merry  is  the  bird's  life 

When  the  year  is  in  its  prime  ! 


SUMMER   WOODS. 

Some  are  strong  and  some  are  weak  ; 

Some  love  day  and  some  love  night ; 
But  whate'er  a  bird  is, 

Whate'er  loves  —  it  has  delight 
In  the  joyous  song  it  sings  ; 

In  the  liquid  air  it  cleaves  ; 
In  the  sunshine,  in  the  shower, 

In  the  nest  it  weaves  ! 

MARY  HOWITT. 


SUMMER   WOODS. 

COME  ye  into  the  summer  woods  ; 

There  entereth  no  annoy  ; 
All  greenly  wave  the  chestnut  leaves, 

And  the  earth  is  full  of  joy. 

I  cannot  tell  you  half  the  sights 

Of  beauty  you  may  see, 
The  bursts  of  golden  sunshine, 

And  many  a  shady  tree. 

There,  lightly  swung,  in  bowery  glades, 

The  honeysuckles  twine ; 
There  blooms  the  rose-red  campion, 

And  the  dark-red  columbine. 


84  SUMMER   WOODS. 

There  grows  the  four-leaved  plant  "  true-love," 

In  some  dusk  woodland  spot ; 
There  grows  the  enchanter's  night-shade, 

And  the  wood  forget-me-not. 

And  many  a  merry  bird  is  there, 

Un scared  by  lawless  men  ; 
The  blue-winged  jay,  the  woodpecker, 

And  the  golden-crested  wren. 

Come  down,  and  ye  shall  see  them  all, 

The  timid  and  the  bold  ; 
For  their  sweet  life  of  pleasantness, 

It  is  not  -to  be  told. 

And  far  within  that  summer-wood, 

Among  the  leaves  so  green, 
There  flows  a  little  gurgling  brook, 

The  brightest  e'er  was  seen. 

There  come  the  little  gentle  birds, 

Without  a  fear  of  ill ; 
Down  to  the  murmuring  water's  edge 

And  freely  drink  their  fill ! 

And  dash  about  and  splash  about, 

The  merry  little  things  ; 
And  look  askance  with  bright  black  eyes, 

And  flirt  their  dripping  wings. 


SUMMER   WOODS.  85 

I  've  seen  the  freakish  squirrels  drop 

Down  from  their  leafy  tree, 
The  little  squirrels  with  the  old,  — 

Great  joy  it  was  to  me  ! 

And  down  unto  the  running  brook 

I  've  seen  them  nimbly  go  ; 
And  the  bright  water  seemed  to  speak 

A  welcome  kind  and  low. 

The  nodding  plants  they  bow  their  heads, 

As  if,  in  heartsome  cheer, 
They  spake  unto  those  little  things, 

"  'T  is  merry  living  here  !  " 

0,  how  my  heart  ran  o'er  with  joy  ! 

I  saw  that  all  was  good, 
And  how  we  might  glean  up  delight 

All  round  us,  if  we  would  ! 

And  many  a  wood-mouse  dwelleth  there, 

Beneath  the  old  wood-shade, 
And  all  day  long  has  work  to  do, 

Nor  is  of  aught  afraid. 

The  green  shoots  grow  above  their  heads, 

And  roots  so  fresh  and  fine 
Beneath  their  feet,  nor  is  there  strife 

'Mong  them  for  mine  and  thine. 


86  LITTLE   BELL. 

There  is  enough  for  every  one, 

And  they  lovingly  agree  ; 
We  might  learn  a  lesson,  all  of  us, 

Beneath  the  green-wood  tree  ! 

MARY  HOWITT. 


LITTLE    BELL. 

"  He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast." 

PIPED  the  Blackbird  on  the  beechwood  spray, 
"  Pretty  maid,  slow  wandering  this  way, 

What 's  your  name  ?  "  quoth  he  — 
"  What 's  your  name  ?  0,  stop  and  straight  unfold 
Pretty  maid,  with  showery  curls  of  gold  !  " 

"  Little  Bell,"  said  she. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  beneath  the  rocks, 
Tossed  aside  her  gleaming  golden  locks, 

"  Bonny  bird  !  "  quoth  she, 
"  Sing  me  your  best  song  before  I  go." 
"  Here 's  the  very  finest  song  I  know, 

Little  Bell,"  said  he. 

And  the  blackbird  piped  —  you  never  heard 
Half  so  gay  a  song  from  any  bird  — 
Full  of  quips  and  wiles, 


LITTLE   BELL.  87 

Now  so  round  and  rich,  now  soft  and  slow, 
All  for  love  of  that  sweet  face  below, 
Dimpled  o'er  with  smiles. 

And  the  while  the  bonny  bird  did  pour 
His  full  heart  out,  freely  o'er  and  o'er, 

'Neath  the  morning  skies, 
In  the  little  childish  heart  below, 
All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 
And  shine  forth  in  happy  overflow 

From  the  blue,  bright  eyes. 

Down  the  dell  she  tripped  ;  and  through  the  glade 
Peeped  the  squirrel  from  the  hazel  shade, 

And  from  out  the  tree 

Swung  and  leaped  and  frolicked,  void  of  fear, 
While  bold  Blackbird  piped,  that  all  might  hear, 

"  Little  Bell !  "  piped  he. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  amid  the  fern  : 

"  Squirrel,  Squirrel,  to  your  task  return  ; 

Bring  me  nuts  !  "  quoth  she. 
Up,  away  !  the  frisky  squirrel  hies  — 
Golden  woodlights  glancing  in  his  eyes  — 

And  adown  the  tree, 

Great  ripe  nuts,  kissed  brown  by  July  sun, 
In  the  little  lap  drop,  one  by  one  — 
Hark,  how  Blackbird  pipes  to  see  the  fun ! 

"Happy  Bell !  "  pipes  he. 


LITTLE   BELL. 

Little  Bell  looked  up  and  down  the  glade : 
"  Squirrel,  Squirrel,  from  the  nut-tree  shade, 
Bonny  Blackbird,  if  you  're  not  afraid, 

Come  and  share  with  me  !  " 
Down  came  Squirrel,  eager  for  his  fare, 
Down  came  bonny  Blackbird,  I  declare, 
Little  Bell  gave  each  his  honest  share. 

Ah,  the  merry  three  ! 

And  the  while  those  frolic  playmates  twain 
Piped  and  frisked  from  bough  to  bough  again, 

'Neath  the  morning  skies, 
In  the  little  childish  heart  below, 
All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 
And  shine  out,  in  happy  overflow, 

From  the  blue,  bright  eyes. 

By  her  snow-white  cot,  at  close  of  day, 
Knelt  sweet  Bell  with  folded  palms,  to  pray  — 

Very  calm  and  clear 
Rose  the  praying  voice  to  where,  unseen 
In  blue  heaven,  an  angel  shape  serene 

Paused  awhile  to  hear. 

"  What  good  child  is  this,"  the  angel  said, 
"  That  with  happy  heart,  beside  her  bed, 

Prays  so  lovingly  !  " 
Low  and  soft,  0  very  low  and  soft, 
Crooned  the  Blackbird  in  the  orchard  croft, 

"  Bell,  dear  Bell !  "  crooned  he. 


KINDNESS   TO   ANIMALS.  £ 

"  Whom  God's  creatures  love,"  the  angel  fair 
Murmured,  "  God  doth  bless  with  angel's  care  ; 

Child,  thy  bed  shall  be 

Folded  safe  from  harm  —  love,  deep  and  kind, 
Shall  watch  around,  and  leave  good  gifts  behind, 
Little  Bell,  for  thee." 

T.  WESTWOOD. 


KINDNESS    TO    ANIMALS. 

TURN,  turn  the  hasty  foot  aside, 

Nor  crush  that  helpless  worm  ; 
The  frame  thy  wayward  looks  deride. 

Required  a  God  to  form. 

The  common  Lord  of  all  that  move, 

From  whom  thy  being  flowed, 
A  portion  of  his  boundless  love 

On  that  poor  worm  bestowed. 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars  he  made, 

To  all  his  creatures  free  ; 
And  spreads  o'er  earth  the  grassy  blade 

For  worms  as  well  as  thee. 

Let  them  enjoy  their  little  day, 

Their  lowly  bliss  receive  ; 
0  do  not  lightly  take  away 

The  life  thou  canst  not  give. 

GlSBOKN. 


90  THE    OAK-TREE. 


THE    OAK-TREE. 

SING  for  the  Oak-tree, 

The  monarch  of  the  wood  ; 
Sing  for  the  Oak-tree, 

That  groweth  green  and  good  ; 
That  groweth  broad  and  branching 

Within  the  forest  shade  ; 
That  groweth  now,  and  yet  shall  grow 

When  we  are  lowly  laid  ! 

The  Oak-tree  was  an  acorn  once, 

And  fell  upon  the  earth  ; 
And  sun  and  showers  nourished  it, 

And  gave  the  Oak-tree  birth. 
The  little  sprouting  Oak-tree  ! 

Two  leaves  it  had  at  first, 
Till  sun  and  showers  had  nourished  it, 

Then  out  the  branches  burst. 

The  little  sapling  Oak-tree  ! 

Its  root  was  like  a  thread, 
Till  the  kindly  earth  had  nourished  it, 

Then  out  it  freely  spread  : 
On  this  side  and  on  that  side 

It  grappled  with  the  ground  ; 
And  in  the  ancient,  rifted  rock 

Its  firmest  footing  found. 


THE   OAK-TREE.  91 

The  winds  came,  and  the  rain  fell ; 

The  gusty  tempest  blew  ; 
All,  all  were  friends  to  the  Oak-tree, 

And  stronger  yet  it  grew. 
The  boy  that  saw  the  acorn  fall, 

He  feeble  grew  and  gray  ; 
But  the  oak  was  still  a  thriving  tree. 

And  strengthened  every  day  ! 

Four  centuries  grows  the  Oak-tree, 

Nor  doth  its  verdure  fail ; 
Its  heart  is  like  the  iron-wood, 

Its  bark  like  plated  mail. 
Now  cut  us  down  the  Oak-tree, 

The  monarch  of  the  wood  ; 
And  of  its  timbers  stout  and  strong 

We  '11  build  a  vessel  good  ! 

The  Oak-tree  of  the  forest 

Both  east  and  west  shall  fly  ; 
And  the  blessings  of  a  thousand  lands 

Upon  our  ship  shall  lie  ! 
For  she  shall  not  be  a  man  of  war, 

Nor  a  pirate  shall  she  be  ; 
But  a  noble,  Christian  merchant  ship, 

To  sail  upon  the  sea. 

MARY  HOWITT. 


SUNSHINE. 


SUNSHINE. 

I  LOVE  the  sunshine  everywhere,  — 
In  wood,  and  field,  and-  glen  ; 

I  love  it  in  the  busy  haunts 
Of  town-imprisoned  men. 

I  love  it  when  it  streameth  in 

The  humble  cottage-door, 
And  casts  a  checkered  casement  shade 

Upon  the  red-brick  floor. 

I  love  it  where  the  children  lie 

Deep  in  the  clovery  grass, 
To  watch  among  the  twining  roots 

The  gold-green  beetles  pass. 

I  love-  it  on  the  breezy  sea, 

To  glance  on  sail  and  oar, 
While  the  great  waves,  like  molten  glass, 

Come  leaping  to  the  shore. 

I  love  it  on  the  mountain-tops, 
Where  lies  the  thawless  snow, 

And  half  a  kingdom,  bathed  in  light, 
Lies  stretching  out  below. 


SUNSHINE.  93 

And  when  it  shines  in  forest  glades, 

Hidden  and  green  and  cool, 
Through  mossy  boughs  and  veined  leaves, 

How  is  it  beautiful ! 

How  beautiful  on  little  streams, 

Where  sun  and  shade  at  play, 
Make  silvery  meshes,  while  the  brook 

Goes  singing  on  its  way. 

How  beautiful,  where  dragon-flies 

Are  wondrous  to  behold, 
With  rainbow  wings  of  gauzy  pearl, 

And  bodies  blue  and  gold  ! 

How  beautiful  on  harvest  slopes, 

To  see  the  sunshine  lie  ; 
Or  on  the  paler  reaped  fields, 

Where  yellow  shocks  stand  high  ! 

0  yes  !  I  love  the  sunshine  : 

Like  kindness  or  like  mirth 
Upon  a  human  countenance 

Is  sunshine  on  the  earth  ! 

Upon  the  earth,  upon  the  sea, 

And  through  the  crystal  air, 
On  piled-up  cloud,  the  gracious  sun 

Is  glorious  everywhere  ! 

MARY  HOWITT. 


94  ROBERT   OF   LINCOLN. 


EGBERT    OF    LINCOLN. 


MERRILY  singing  on  brier  and  weed, 
Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 
Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name  : 
Bob-o'-link,  Bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spmk  ; 
Snug  and  safe  in  that  nest  of  ours, 
Hidden  among  the  summer-flowers  ; 
Ghee,  chee,  chee7 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gayly  drest, 

Wearing  a  bright-black  wedding-coat ; 
White  are  his  shoulders,  and  white  his  crest ; 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note, 
Bob-o'-link,  Bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink  ; 
Look  what  a  nice  new  coat  is  mine, 
Sure  there  was  never  a  bird  so  fine  ; 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  Quaker  wife, 

Pretty  and  quiet,  with  plain  brown  wings, 
Passing  at  home  a  patient  life, 

Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband  sings, 

Bob-o'-link,  Bob-o'-link  ; 
Brood,  kind  creature,  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here  ; 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


ROBERT   OF   LINCOLN. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she  ; 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note ; 
Braggart,  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he, 

Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat  — 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man, 
Catch  me  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay, 

Freckled  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight ! 

There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 

Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might,  — 

Nice  good  wife,  that  never  goes  out, 

Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell, 
Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food  ; 

Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seeds  for  the  hungry  brood. 

This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 

Hard  for  a  young  fellow  like  me. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 
Sober  with  work,  and  silent  with  care ; 

Orf  is  his  holiday  garment  laid 
Half  forgotten  that  merry  air,  — 

Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 

Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 

Summer  wanes,  —  the  children  are  grown 
Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows, 


96  THE   WIND. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  's  a  humdrum  crone  ; 
Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes,  — 
When  you.  can  pipe  in  that  merry  old  strain, 
Robert  of  Lincoln  come  back  again. 

W.  C.  BRYANT. 


THANKFULNESS. 

WHEN  thou  hast  truly  thanked  thy  God 

For  every  blessing  sent, 
But  little  time  will  then  remain 

For  murmur  or  lament. 


THE    WIND. 

WHAT  way  does  the  wind  come  ?  what  way  does  he  go  ? 

He  rides  over  the  water,  and  over  the  snow  ; 

Through  wood,  and  through  vale,  and  o'er  rocky  height, 

Which  the  goat  cannot  climb,  takes  his  sounding  flight; 

He  tosses  about  in  every  bare  tree, 

As,  if  you  look  up,  you  plainly  may  see  ; 

But  how  he  will  come,  and  whither  he  goes, 

There  's  never  a  scholar  in  England  knows. 

He  will  suddenly  stop  in  a  cunning  nook, 

And  rings  a  sharp  'larum  ;  —  but,  if  you  should  look, 

There  's  nothing  to  see  but  a  cushion  of  snow, 


THE    WIND.  97 

Round  as  a  pillow,  and  whiter  than  milk, 

And  softer  than  if  it  were  covered  with  silk. 

Sometimes  he  '11  hide  in  the  cave  of  a  rock, 

Then  whistle  as  shrill  as  the  buzzard  cock ; 

—  Yet  seek  him,  —  and  what  shall  you  find  in  the  place  ? 

Nothing  but  silence  and  empty  space  ; 

Save  in  a  corner,  a  heap  of  dry  leaves, 

That  he 's  left,  for  a  bed,  to  beggars  or  thieves  ! 

As  soon  as  't  is  daylight,  to-morrow  with  me, 
You  shall  go  to  the  orchard,  and  then  you  will  see 
That  he  has  been  there,  and  made  a  great  rout 
And  cracked  the  branches,  and  strewn  them  about ; 
Heaven  grant  that  he  spare  but  that  one  upright  twig 
That  looked  up  at  the  sky  so  proud  and  big 
Ail  last  summer,  as  well  you  know, 
Studded  with  apples,  a  beautiful  show  ! 

Hark !  over  the  roof  he  makes  a  pause, 
And  growls  as  if  he  would  fix  his  claws 
Right  in  the  slates,  and  with  a  huge  rattle 
Drive  them  down,  like  men  in  a  battle  : 

—  But  let  him  range  round  ;  he  does  us  no  harm, 
We  build  up  the  fire,  we  're  snug  and  warm  ; 
Untouched  by  his  breath,  see  the  candle  shines  bright, 
And  burns  with  a  clear  and  steady  light ; 

Books  have  we  to  read,  —  but  that  half  stifled  knell, 
Alas  1  'tis  the  sound  of  the  eight  o'clock  bell. 

—  Come,  now  we  '11  to  bed  !  and  when  we  are  there 
He  may  work  his  own  will,  and  what  shall  we  care  ? 

5  G 


98  THE   KITTEN   AND   THE   FALLING   LEAVES. 

He  may  knock  at  the  door,  —  we  '11  not  let  him  in  ; 
May  drive  at  the  windows,  —  we  '11  laugh  at  his  din  ; 
Let  him  seek  his  own  home  wherever  it  be  ; 
Here  's  a  cosey  warm  house  for  Edward  and  me. 

MARY  LAMB. 


THE  KITTEN  AND  THE   FALLING  LEAVES. 

SEE  the  kitten  on  the  wall, 
Sporting  with  the  leaves  that  fall. 
Withered  leaves,  one  —  two  —  and  three, 
From  the  lofty  elder-tree  ! 
Through  the  calm  and  frosty  air 
Of  this  morning,  bright  and  fair, 
Eddying  round  and  round,  they  sink 
Softly,  slowly  ;  one  might  think, 
From  the  motions  that  are  made, 
Every  little  leaf  conveyed 
Sylph  or  fairy  hither  tending, 
To  this  lower  world  descending  ; 
Each  invisible  and  mute 
In  his  wavering  parachute. 

But  the  kitten,  how  she  starts, 
Crouches,  stretches,  paws,  and  darts, 
First  at  one,  and  then  its  fellow, 
Just  as  light  and  just  as  yellow  ; 
There  are  many  now  —  now  one  — 
Now  they  stop,  and  there  are  none. 


THE   CORAL    BRANCH.  99 

What  in  tenseness  of  desire 
In  her  upward  eye  of  fire  ! 
With  a  tiger-leap,  half-way 
Now  she  meets  the  coming  prey, 
Lets  it  go  as  fast,  and  then 
Has  it  in  her  power  again. 
Were  her  antics  played  i'  the  eye 
Of  a  thousand  standers-by, 
Clapping  hands  with  shout  and  stare, 
What  would  little  Tabby  care 
For  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd  ? 
Over  happy  to  be  proud, 
Over  wealthy  in  the  treasure 
Of  her  own  exceeding  pleasure  ! 

WORDSWORTH. 


THE    CORAL    BRANCH 

I  THOUGHT  my  branch  of  coral 
A  pretty  shrub  might  be, 

Until  I  learned  a  little  worm 
Had  made  it  in  the  sea. 

Down,  down  so  deep, 
Where  dark  waters  sleep, 

The  coral  insect  lives  ; 
But  rests  not  there, 
With  toil  and  care 

It  upward,  upward  strives. 


100  JACK    FROST. 


It  builds  its  coral  palaces 
Than  lofty  hills  more  high, 

And  then  the  structure  to  complete, 
The  little  worm  must  die  ; 

Tims  teaching  me, 
When  coral  I  see, 

That  dying  I  should  leave 
Some  good  work  here 
My  friends  to  cheer, 

When  o'er  my  tomb  they  grieve. 


JACK    FROST. 

A  BRIGHT  little  rogue  jumped  out  of  his  bed, 

With  his  rose-flushed  cheek,  and  his  golden  hair 

Curling  and  floating  all  over  his  head, 

As  if  slumber  had  only  been  frolicking  there. 

He  sprung  to  the  window,  and  clapped  his  hands, 

And  a  smile  came  up  in  his  deep-blue  eyes, 

For  a  vision  of  other,  and  lovelier  lands, 

In  still,  dim  beauty,  before  him  lies ! 

The  fairy  garden  —  the  glittering  mosque, 

The  graceful  bower  and  gay  kiosk, 

The  lake,  that  sparkles  in  light  serene, 

Might  mark  the  picture  a  Persian  scene  : 

That  cataract  foaming  !  —  A  drop  of  light ! 

Those  cloud-capt  mountains  in  miniature  ! 


JACK   FROST.  101 

Why,  a  fly,  in  a  twinkling,  could  climb  the  height, 

Where  Eastern  idolaters  knelt  of  yore  ! 

But  close  to  the  temple  —  how  came  it  there  ?  — 

Is  something  that  looks  like  a  great  white  bear ! 

And  gliding  away  on  the  sunniest  edge 

Of  the  garden  bright,  is  a  Lapland  sledge  ! 

The  graceful  reindeer  is  white  as  snow,  — 

And  the  reins  and  his  antlers  are  silver,  I  know  ! 

And  see  !  on  the  seat  of  the  gossamar  car, 

A  dear  little  Laplander  shines  like  a  star, 

With  a  cunning  white  boa,  on  her  tiny  blue  dress  — 

What !  fur  among  roses  !  she  '11  melt,  I  guess. 

She  is  rather  too  brilliant  for  nature  ;  no  matter,  — 

We  believe  't  is  the  license  of  painters  to  natter. 

Willy  knew  by  the  tracing,  strange  and  fair, 

That  a  queer  little  artist,  called  Frost,  had  been  there  ; 

He  thought,  too,  he  spied  him,  outside  of  the  pane  — 

That  funny  old  man  —  when  he  looked  again, 

With  his  twinkling  eyes,  keen,  cold,  and  bright, 

His  pallet  of  pearl  and  pencil  of  light, 

His  pinions  of  fleece,  with  moonbeams  inlaid, 

And  his  three-cornered  cap,  of  a  diamond  made. 

He  looked  hard  at  Willy,  as  much  as  to  say, 

"  I  would  give  the  best  gem  in  my  casket,  to  play 

With  your  wild,  bright  curls,  and  your  lip  of  rose, 

Or  to  bite  off  the  end  of  your  dear  little  nose  !  " 

"  No  !  no  !  Mr.  Frost,  you  may  peep  if  you  please, 

Over  the  mountains,  and  through  the  trees  ! 

You  may  float  in  the  clouds,  through  the  deep  midnight, 

And  play  with  your  jewels  of  rainbow  light ! 


102  JACK   FROST. 

You  may  dance  on  the  lake  with  your  twinkling  feet, 

Till  it  hardens  beneath  them,  a  silver  sheet ! 

You  may  wave  your  wings  o'er  the  woodland  bloom, 

And  sprinkle  their  sparkles  amid  the  gloom, 

Till  the  whole  wide  forest,  from  towering  pine 

To  baby-bush,  with  your  snow-plumes  shine  ! 

You  may  look  on  the  rivulet,  murmuring  by, 

Till  you  charm  it  to  sleep  with  your  clear,  cold  eye, 

And  bid  it  forget  its  flowing. 

You  may  do  what  you  will,  and  I  will  not  fear  — 

No  !  no  !  Mr.  Frost,  you  shall  not  come  here. 

Mother,  how  cold  it  is  growing ! 

No  !  no  !  Mr.  Frost,  you  may  bite,  if  you  please, 

The  poor  little  shivering  birds  on  the  trees  ; 

You  may  dig  with  the  point  of  your  cap  in  the  earth, 

Till  you  come  to  the  place  where  the  flowers  have  birth, 

And  tell  them  they  must  n't  come  up,  —  if  they  do, 

You  '11  pinch  them  all,  till  they  're  black  and  blue  ! 

You  may  frighten  the  lilies  and  roses  ; 

You  may  bite  the  bush,  the  vine,  the  tree, 

But,  Mr.  Jack  Frost,  you  shall  not  bite  me  ! 

Mother,  how  cold  my  nose  is  ! 

No  !  no  !  Mr.  Frost,  you  may  eat  the  grass  ; 

You  may  try  your  teeth  upon  window-glass, 

Since  you  must  do  some  mischief  or  other  ; 

You  may  swallow  the  brooks,  —  and  the  deep,  full  sea, 

You  thirsty  old  fellow  !  your  drink  may  be, 

But,  dear  Mr.  Jack  Frost !  please  don't  eat  me  ! 

0,  give  me  my  breakfast  juother  !  " 

The  milk  was  lifted,  for  Willy  to  sip  ; 


IT  SNOWS.  103 

But  he  felt,  just  then,  on  his  soft,  warm  lip, 

A  tiny  touch,  from  a  hand  of  ice, 

And  he  put  it  away  from  his  mouth  in  a  trice. 

What  do  you  think  he  found  in  his  cup  ? 

The  poor  little  iceman  himself  peeped  up. 

Willy  lifted  the  bowl  —  one  draught  he  drew  ;  — 

"  And  pray,  Mr.  Jack  Frost,  where  are  you  ? 

You  need  n't  go  diving  and  glancing  about, 

As  if  little  Willy  would  let  you  come  out." 

Ah,  Willy  !  he  drained  the  sweet  cup  with  delight, 

And  when  he  had  finished,  he  stared  in  affright, 

He  thought  he  should  find  him  all  snugly  curled  up, 

The  poor  little  painter  !   within  the  deep  cup. 

Full  sharply  he  looked  —  but  Jack  was  not  there, 

And  Willy  cried  out,  "  He  's  gone,  I  declare  ! 

While  I  drank,  he  jumped  from  the  bowl,  1  know  — 

Mother,  dear  mother,  did  you  see  him  go  ? 

You  're  a  coward,  Jack  Frost ;  and  next  time  I  meet  you, 

If  you  dare  touch  my  lips,  I  will  surely  eat  you.'* 

CHOICE  POEMS. 


IT    SNOWS. 

IT  snows  !  it  snows  !  from  out  the  sky 
The  feathered  flakes,  how  fast  they  fly. 
Like  little  birds,  that  don't  know  why 
They  're  on  the  chase,  from  place  to  place, 
While  neither  can  the  other  trace. 
It  snows  !  it  snows  !  a  merry  play 
Is  o'er  us,  on  this  heavy  day ! 


104  IT   SNOWS. 

As  dancers  in  an  airy  hall, 
That  has  n't  room  to  hold  them  all, 
While  some  keep  up,  and  others  fall, 
The  atoms  shift,  then,  thick  and  swift, 
They  drive  along  to  form  the  drift, 
That  waving  up,  so  dazzling  white, 
Is  rising  like  a  wall  of  light. 

But  now  the  wind  comes  whistling  loud, 

To  snatch  and  waft  it  as  a  cloud, 

Or  giant  phantom  in  a  shroud  ; 

It  spreads  !  it  curls  !  it  mounts  and  whirls  ! 

At  length,  a  mighty  wing  unfurls  ; 

And  then,  away !  but,  where,  none  knows, 

Or  ever  will.  —  It  snows  !  it  snows  ! 

To-morrow  will  the  storm  be  done  ; 

Then,  out  will  come  the  golden  sun  : 

And  we  shall  see,  upon  the  run 

Before  his  beams,  in  sparkling  streams, 

What  now  a  curtain  o'er  him  seems. 

And  thus,  with  life,  it  ever  goes  ; 

'T  is  shade  and  shine  !  —  It  snows  !  it  snows ! 

H.  F.  GOULD. 


'T  is  little  acts  of  good  or  ill, 
That  make  our  vast  account. 

No  one,  though  great,  does  all  God's  will. 

Small  drops  the  caves  of  ocean  fill ; 
And  sands  compose  the  mount. 


IBID. 


LOVING   AND   LIKING.  105 


LOVING    AND    LIKING. 

THERE  's  more  in  words  than  I  can  teach  : 

Yet  listen,  Child  !  —  I  would  not  preach  ; 

But  only  give  some  plain  directions 

To  guide  your  speech  and  your  affections. 

Say  not  you  love  a  roasted  Fowl, 

But  you  may  love  a  screaming  Owl, 

And  if  you  can,  the  unwieldy  Toad 

That  crawls  from  his  secure  abode 

Within  the  mossy  garden-wall 

When  evening  dews  begin  to  fall. 

0,  mark  the  beauty  of  his  eye  : 

What  wonders  in  that  circle  lie  ! 

So  clear,  so  bright,  our  fathers  said 

He  wears  a  jewel  in  his  head  ! 

And  when,  upon  some  showery  day, 

Into  a  path  or  public  way, 

A  Frog  leaps  out  from  bordering  grass, 

Startling  the  timid  as  they  pass, 

Do  you  observe  him,  and  endeavor 

To  take  the  intruder  into  favor ; 

Learning  from  him  to  find  a  reason 

For  a  light  heart  in  a  dull  season. 

And  you  may  love  him  in  the  pool, 

That  is  for  him  a  happy  school, 

In  which  he  swims,  as  taught  by  nature, 

A  pattern  for  a  human  creature, 

Glancing  amid  the  water  bright, 

5* 


106  LOVING   AND   LIKING. 

And  sending  upward  sparkling  light. 
Nor  blush  if  o'er  your  heart  be  stealing 
A  love  for  things  that  have  no  feeling  ; 
The  spring's  first  Rose,  by  you  espied, 
May  fill  your  breast  with  joyful  pride  ; 
And  you  may  love  the  Strawberry  flower, 
And  love  the  Strawberry  in  its  bower  ; 
But  when  the  fruit,  so  often  praised 
For  beauty  to  your  lip  is  raised. 
Say  not  you  love  the  delicate  treat, 
But  like  it,  enjoy  it,  and  thankfully  eat. 
Long  may  you  love  your  pensioner  Mouse, 
Though  one  of  a  tribe  that  torment  the  house  : 
Nor  dislike  for  her  cruel  sport  the  Cat, 
That  deadly  foe  of  both  mouse  and  rat : 
Remember  she  follows  the  law  of  her  kind, 
And  Instinct  is  neither  wayward  nor  blind. 
Then  think  of  her  beautiful  gliding  form, 
Her  tread  that  would  not  crush  a  worm, 
And  her  soothing  song  by  the  winter  fire, 
Soft  as  the  dying  throb  of  the  lyre. 

I  would  not  circumscribe  your  love  : 

It  may  soar  with  the  eagle  and  brood  with  the  dove, 

May  pierce  the  earth  with  the  patient  mole, 

Or  track  the  hedgehog  to  his  hole. 

Loving  and  liking  are  the  solace  of  life, 

They  foster  all  joy,  and  extinguish  all  strife. 

You  love  your  father  and  your  mother, 

Your  grown-up  and  your  baby  brother  ; 


THE   BAREFOOT   BOY.  107 

You  love  your  sister,  and  your  friends, 

And  countless  blessings  which  God  sends : 

And  while  these  right  affections  play, 

You  LIVE  each  moment  of  your  day  ; 

They  lead  you  on  to  full  content, 

And  likings  fresh  and  innocent, 

That  store  the  mind,  the  memory  feed, 

And  prompt  to  many  a  gentle  deed  : 

But  LIKINGS  come,  and  pass  away  ; 

'T  is  LOVE  that  remains  till  our  latest  day  : 

Our  heavenward  guide  is  holy  love, 

And  it  will  be  our  bliss  with  saints  above  ! 

MARY  LAMB. 


THE    BAREFOOT    BOY. 

BLESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  ! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes  ; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy  - 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy  ! 
Prince  thou  art  —  the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 


108  THE   BAREFOOT   BOY. 

Let  the  million-dollared  ride  ! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy, 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye  — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy  : 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  ! 

0  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  in  schools, 
Of  the  wild-bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl,  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood  ; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well ; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung  ; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine  ; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans  !  — 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks  ; 


THE   BAREFOOT   BOY.  109 

Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy  — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy ! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can  ! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew  ; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat  : 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod. 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground  ; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  ! 

J.  G.  WHITTIER. 


110  TIRED    OF   PLAY. 


TIRED    OF    PLAY. 

TIRED  of  play  !  tired  of  play  ! 

What  hast  thou  done  this  livelong  day  ? 

The  bird  is  hushed,  and  so  is  the  bee, 

The  sun  is  creeping  up  steeple  and  tree  ; 

The  doves  have  flown  to  the  sheltering  eaves, 

And  the  nests  are  dark  with  the  drooping  leaves ; 

Twilight  gathers,  and  day  is  done  ;  — 

How  hast  thou  spent  it,  precious  one  ? 

Playing  ?  —  But  what  hast  thou  done  beside, 
To  tell  thy  mother  at  eventide  ? 
What  promise  of  morn  is  left  unbroken  ? 
What  kind  word  to  thy  playmate  spoken  ? 
Whom  hast  thou  pitied,  and  whom  forgiven  ? 
How  with  thy  faults  has  duty  striven  ? 
What  hast  thou  learned  by  field  and  hill, 
By  green-wood  path,  and  by  singing  rill  ? 

There  will  come  an  eve  to  a  longer  day, 
That  will  find  thee  tired,  —  but  not  of  play. 
Well  for  thee  then,  if  thy  lip  can  tell 
A  tale  like  this  of  a  day  spent  well. 
If  thine  open  hand  hath  relieved  distress, 
If  thy  pity  hath  sprung  at  wretchedness, 
If  thou  hast  forgiven  the  sore  offence, 
And  humbled  thy  heart  with  penitence  ; 
If  Nature's  voices  have  spoken  to  thee 


NOT  TO  MYSELF  ALONE.  Ill 

With  their  holy  meanings,  eloquently  ; 

If  every  creature  hath  won  thy  love, 

From  the  creeping  worm  to  the  brooding  dove, 

And  never  a  sad,  low-spoken  word 

Hath  plead  with  thy  human  heart  unheard,  — 

Then,  when  the  night  steals  on  as  now, 

It  will  bring  relief  to  thine  aching  brow, 

And  with  joy  and  peace  at  the  thought  of  rest, 

Thou  wilt  sink  to  sleep  on  thy  mother's  breast. 

N.  P.  WILLIS. 


NOT    TO    MYSELF    ALONE. 

"  NOT  to  myself  alone," 
The  little  opening  flower  transported  cries,  — 
"  Not  to  myself  alone  I  bud  and  bloom  ; 
With  fragrant  breath  the  breezes  I  perfume, 
And  gladden  all  things  with  my  rainbow  dyes. 
The  bee  comes  sipping,  every  eventide, 

His  dainty  fill ; 

The  butterfly  within  my  cup  doth  hide 
From  threatening  ill." 

"  Not  to  myself  alone," 
The  circling  star  with  honest  pride  doth  boast,  — 

"  Not  to  myself  alone  I  rise  and  set ; 

I  write  upon  night's  coronal  of  jet 
His  power  and  skill  who  formed  our  myriad  host ; 


112  NOT  TO  MYSELF  ALONE. 

A  friendly  beacon  at  heaven's  open  gate, 

I  gem  the  sky, 
That  man  might  ne'er  forget,  in  every  fate, 

His  home  on  high." 

"  Not  to  myself  alone," 

The  heavy-laden  bee  doth  murmuring  hum, — 
"  Not  to  myself  alone,  from  flower  to  flower, 
I  rove  the  wood,  the  garden,  and  the  bower, 
And  to  the  hive  at  evening  weary  come  : 
For  man,  for  man,  the  luscious  food  I  pile, 

With  busy  care, 

Content  if  I  repay  my  ceaseless  toil 
With  scanty  share." 

"  Not  to  myself  alone," 
The  soaring  bird  with  lusty  pinion  sings,  — 
"  Not  to  myself  alone  I  raise  my  song  ; 
I  cheer  the  drooping  with  my  warbling  tongue, 
And  bear  the  mourner  on  my  viewless  wings  ; 
I  bid  the  hymnless  churl  my  anthem  learn, 

And  God  adore  ; 

I  call  the  worldling  from  his  dross  to  turn, 
And  sing  and  soar." 

"  Not  to  myself  alone," 
The  streamlet  whispers  on  its  pebbly  Way,  — 

"  Not  to  myself  alone  I  sparkling  glide  ; 

I  scatter  health  and  life  on  every  side, 
And  strew  the  fields  with  herb  and  floweret  gay. 


NOT  TO  MYSELF  ALONE.  113 

I  sing  unto  the  common,  bleak  and  bare, 

My  gladsome  tune  ; 
I  sweeten  and  refresh  the  languid  air 

In  droughty  June." 

"  Not  to  myself  alone," 

0  man  !  forget  not  thou  —  earth's  honored  priest, 
Its  tongue,  its  soul,  its  lip,  its  pulse,  its  heart  — 
In  earth's  great  chorus  to  sustain  thy  part ! 
Chiefest  of  guests  at  love's  ungrudging  feast, 
Play  not  the  niggard  ;  spurn  thy  native  clod, 

And  self  disown ; 

Live  to  thy  neighbor,  live  unto  thy  God  ; 
Not  to  thyself  alone  ! 


ii 


PART    IV. 

RELIGIOUS    INSTRUCTION 


I.    THE   HEAVENLY   FATHER. 


THE    MOTHER'S    PRAYER. 

FAIN,  0  my  child,  I  'd  have  thee  know, 
The  God  whom  angels  love  : 

And  teach  thee  feeble  strains  below, 
Akin  to  theirs  above. 


118  TEACHING   LITTLE   CHILDREN. 

0  when  thy  lisping  tongue  shall  read 
Of  truths  divinely  sweet, 

May'st  thou,  a  little  child  indeed, 
Sit  down  at  Jesus'  feet. 

1  '11  move  thine  ear,  I  '11  point  thine  eye  — 

But  ah  !  the  inward  part  — 
Great  God,  the  Spirit !  hear  the  sigh 
That  trembles  through  my  heart  ! 

Break,  with  thy  vital  beam  benign, 

O'er  all  the  mental  wild  ! 
Bright  o'er  the  human  chaos  shine, 

And  sanctify  my  child. 

MRS.  VOKB. 


TEACHING    LITTLE    CHILDREN 

0  SAY  not,  think  not,  heavenly  notes 

To  childish  ears  are  vain,  — 
That  the  young  mind  at  random  floats, 

And  cannot  reach  the  strain. 

Was  not  our  Lord  a  little  child, 

Taught  by  degrees  to  pray, 
By  father  dear  and  mother  mild 

Instructed  day  by  day  ? 


THE   PURE   IN   HEART.  119 

And  loved  he  not  of  heaven  to  talk 

With  children  in  his  sight, 
To  meet  them  in  his  daily  walk, 

And  to  his  arms  invite  ? 

And  though  some  tones  be  weak  and  low, 

What  are  all  prayers  beneath, 
But  cries  of  babes,  that  cannot  know 

Half  the  deep  thought  they  breathe  ? 

In  his  own  words  we  Christ  adore  ; 

But  angels,  as  we  speak, 
Higher  above  our  meaning  soar 

Than  we  o'er  children  weak. 

And  yet  his  words  mean  more  than  they, 

And  yet  he  owns  their  praise  ; 
0,  think  not  that  he  turns  away 

From  infants'  simple  lays  ! 

KEBLJE. 


THE    PURE  IN  HEART. 

BLEST  are  the  pure  in  heart, 
For  they  shall  see  our  God, 

The  secret  of  the  Lord  is  theirs,  * 
Their  soul  is  His  abode. 


120          THE  CHILD  AND  THE  ANGELS. 

Still  to  the  lowly  soul 

He  doth  Himself  impart, 
And  for  His  temple  and  His  throne 

Selects  the  pure  in  heart. 

KEBLE 


THE    CHILD    AND    THE    ANGELS. 

THE  Sabbath's  sun  was  setting  low, 

Amidst  the  clouds  at  even  ; 
"  Our  Father,"  breathed  a  voice  below,  — 

Father,  who  art  in  heaven." 

Beyond  the  earth,  beyond  the  clouds, 
Those  infant  words  were  given  ; 

"  Our  Father,"  angels  sang  aloud.— 
"  Father,  who  art  in  heaven." 

"  Thy  kingdom  come,"  still  from  the  ground, 

That  child-like  voice  did  pray  ; 
"  Thy  kingdom  come,"  God's  hosts  resound, 

Far  up  the  starry  way. 

"  Thy  will  be  done,"  with  little  tongue, 

That  lisping  love  implores  ; 
"  Thy  will  be  done,"  the  angelic  throng 

Sing  from  the  heavenly  shores. 


GOD   OUR   FATHER.  121 

"  Forever,"  still  those  lips  repeat, 

Their  closing  evening  prayer  ; 
"  Forever,"  floats  in  music  sweet, 

High  'midst  the  angels  there." 

CHARLES  SWAIN. 


GOD    OUR    FATHER. 

WE  are  not  orphans  on  the  earth, 

Though  friends  and  parents  die  ; 
One  Parent  never  bows  to  death, — 

One  Friend  is  ever  nigh. 

Even  he  who  lit  the  stars  of  old, 

And  filled  the  ocean  broad, 
Whose  works  and  ways  are  manifold,  — 

Our  father  is  our  God. 

There  comes  no  change  upon  his  years, 

No  failure  to  his  hand ; 
His  love  will  lighten  all  our  cares, 

His  law  our  steps  command. 

May  Christ  who  for  our  sakes  the  gloom 

Of  death's  dark  valley  trod, 
Bring  us  all  safe  at  last  to  him,  — 

Our  Father  and  our  God ! 

SUNDAY-SCHOOL,  HYMNS. 
6 


122  FEAR  NOT. 


GOD   IS    NEAR. 


I  WILL  not  fear, 
For  God  is  near, 
Through  the  dark  night, 
As  in  the  light ; 
And  while  I  sleep, 
Safe  watch  will  keep, 
Why  should  I  fear, 
When  God  is  near  ? 

HYMNS  FOR  LITTLE  ONES  AT  HOME. 


FEAR   NOT. 

YEA,  fear  not,  fear  not  little  ones  ; 

There  is  in  heaven  an  Eye 
That  looks  with  yearning  fondness  down 

On  all  the  paths  ye  try. 

'T  is  He  who  guides  the  sparrow's  wing, 

And  guards  her  little  brood  ; 
Who  hears  the  ravens  when  they  cry, 

And  fills  them  all  with  food. 

'T  is  He  who  clothes  the  field  with  flowers, 

And  pours  the  light  abroad  ; 
'T  is  He  who  numbers  all  your  hours, 

Your  Father  and  your  God. 


GOD   SEES   ME.  123 

Ye  are  the  chosen  of  his  love, 

His  most  peculiar  care  ; 
And  will  he  guide  the  fluttering  dove, 

And  not  regard  your  prayer  ? 

Nay,  fear  not,  fear  not,  little  ones  ; 

There  is  in  heaven  an  Eye 
That  looks  with  yearning  fondness  down 

On  all  the  paths  you  try. 

He  '11  keep  you  when  the  storm  is  wild, 

And  when  the  flood  is  near ; 
0  trust  him,  trust  him  as  a  child, 

And  you  have  naught  to  fear  ! 


GOD    SEES    ME. 

THROUGH  all  the  busy  daylight,  through  all  the  quiet 

night, 
Whether  the  stars  in  the  sky,  or  the  sun  is  shining 

bright ; 
In  the  nursery,  in  the  parlor ;  in  the  street,  or  on  the 

stair,  — 

Though  I  may  seem  to  be  alone,  yet  God  is  always 
there. 

Whatever  I  may  do, 

Wherever  I  may  be, 
Although  I  see  him  not, 
Yet  God  sees  me. 


124  GOD   SEES   ME. 

He  knows  each  word  I  mean  to  speak,  before  the  word 

is  spoken ; 
He  knows  the  thoughts  within  my  heart,  although  I  give 

110  token. 
When  I  am  naughty,  then  I  grieve  my  Heavenly  Father's 

love  ; 

And,  every  time  I  really  try,  he  helps  me  from  above. 
Whatever  I  may  do, 

Wherever  I  may  be, 
Although  I  see  him  not, 
Yet  God  sees  me. 

I  have  kind  and  tender  parents  ;  I  have  many  loving 

friends : 
But  none  love  me  as  God  loves  me ;  and  all  that 's  good 

he  sends. 
I  will  walk  as  God  shall  lead  me,  while  the  sun  is  in  the 

sky; 

And  lay  me  down,  and   sleep   in  peace,  beneath   his 
watchful  eye. 

Whatever  I  may  do, 

Wherever  I  may  be, 
Although  I  see  him  not, 
Yet  God  sees  me. 

HYMNS  FOR  YOUNG  CHILDREN. 


GOD'S  CARE.  125 


GOD    LOVES    ME. 

GOD  cares  for  every  little  child 

That  on  this  large  earth  liveth : 
He  gives  them  homes  and  food  and  clothes  ; 

And  more  than  these  God  giveth  ;  — 

He  gives  them  all  their  loving  friends  ; 

He  gives  each  child  its  mother  ; 
He  gives  them  all  the  happiness 

Of  loving  one  another  ; 

He  makes  the  earth  all  beautiful ; 

He  makes  thine  eyes  to  see ; 
And  touch  and  hearing,  taste  and  smell, 

He  gives  them  all  to  thee. 

What  can  a  little  child  give  God  ? 

From  his  bright  heavens  above 
The  great  God  smiles,  and  reaches  down 

To  take  his  children's  love. 

HYMNS  FOR  YOUNG  CHILDREN. 


GOD'S    CARE. 


WHAT  secret  hand,  at  morning  light, 
Softly  unseals  mine  eye, 


[26  GOD   IS   GOOD. 

Draws  back  the  curtain  of  the  night, 
And  opens  earth  and  sky  ? 

'T  is  thine,  my  God,  —  the  same  that  kept 
My  resting  hours  from  harm  ; 

No  ill  came  nigh  me,  for  I  slept 
Beneath  the  Almighty's  arm. 

'T  is  thine  my  daily  bread  that  brings, 
Like  manna  scattered  round, 

And  clothes  me,  as  the  lily  springs 
In  beauty  from  the  ground. 

In  death's  dark  valley  though  I  stray, 
'T  would  there  my  steps  attend, 

Guide  with  the  staff  my  lonely  way, 
And  with  the  rod  defend. 

May  that  sure  hand  uphold  me  still 
Through  life's  uncertain  race, 

To  bring  me  to  thy  holy  hill, 
And  to  thy  dwelling-place. 


MONTGOMERY. 


GOD    IS    GOOD. 

GOD  is  good  !  each  perfumed  flower, 

The  smiling  fields,  the  dark  green  wood, 


GOD   IS   GOOD.  127 

The  insect,  fluttering  for  an  hour,  — 
All  things  proclaim  that  God  is  good. 

I  hear  it  in  each  breath  of  wind  ; 

Hills  that  have  for  ages  stood, 
And  clouds,  with  gold  and  silver  lined, 

Are  still  repeating,  God  is  good. 

Each  little  rill,  that  many  a  year 
Has  the  same  verdant  path  pursued, 

And  every  bird,  in  accents  clear, 
Joins  in  the  song,  that  God  is  good. 

The  restless  sea,  with  haughty  roar, 
Calms  each  wild  wave  and  billow  rude, 

Retreats  submissive  from  the  shore, 
And  swells  the  chorus,  "  God  is  good." 

The  countless  hosts  of  twinkling  stars 
Sing  his  praise  with  light  renewed ; 

The  rising  sun  each  day  declares, 
In  rays  of  glory,  God  is  good. 

The  moon  that  walks  in  brightness,  says 
That  God  is  good  !  —  and  man,  endued 

With  power  to  speak  his  Maker's  praise, 
Should  still  repeat  that  God  is  good. 

MRS.  FOLLEN. 


128  WHO   TAKES    CARE. 


WHO    TAKES    CARE. 

IN  winter  where  can  be  the  flowers, 

The  leaves  that  look  so  green  ? 
There  's  not  a  bud  in  all  the  bowers, 

Nor  daisy  to  be  seen. 

And  who  will  bring  them  back  again, 
When  pleasant  spring  comes  out  ? 

And  plant  them  up  and  down  the  lane, 
And  spread  them  all  about  ? 

And  who  will  bring  the  little  lambs 

With  wool  as  soft  as  silk, 
And  teach  them  how  to  know  their  dams, 

And  where  to  find  the  milk  ? 

And  who  will  teach  the  little  birds 

To  build  their  nests  on  high, 
And,  though  they  cannot  speak  in  words, 

To  teach  their  young  to  fly  ? 

The  Lord  in  Heaven  —  'tis  there  he  dwells 

Who  all  these  things  can  do  ; 
And  his  own  book,  the  Bible,  tells 

Much  more  about  Him  too. 

SACRED  SONGS  FOR  SUNDAY  SCHOOLS. 


FLOWERS.  129 


FLOWERS. 

GOD  might  have  made  the  earth  bring  forth 

Enough  for  great  and  small, 
The  oak-tree,  and  the  cedar-tree, 

Without  a  flower  at  all. 

He  might  have  made  enough,  enough 

For  every  want  of  ours  ; 
For  luxury,  medicine,  and  toil, 

And  yet  have  made  no  flowers. 

The  clouds  might  give  abundant  rain, 

The  nightly  dews  might  fall, 
And  the  herb  that  keepeth  life  in  man, 

Might  yet  have  drunk  them  all. 

Then  wherefore,  wherefore  were  they  made, 

And  dyed  with  rainbow  light, 
All  fashioned  with  supremest  grace, 

Upspringing  day  and  night  ? 

Springing  in  valleys  green  and  low, 

And  on  the  mountains  high  ; 
And  in  the  silent  wilderness, 

Where  no  man  passes  by  ? 

6*  I 


130  CHILDREN   IN    CHURCH. 

Our  outward  life  requires  them  not, 
Then  wherefore  had  they  birth  ? 

To  minister  delight  to  man  ; 
To  beautify  the  earth  ; 

To  comfort  man,  —  to  whisper  hope 

Whene'er  his  faith  is  dim  ; 
For  whoso  careth  for  the  flowers, 

Will  care  much  more  for  him  ! 

MARY  HOWITT. 


CHILDREN   IN    CHURCH. 

WHEN  to  the  house  of  God  we  go, 
To  hear  his  word  and  sing  his  love, 

We  ought  to  worship  him  below, 
As  saints  and  angels  do  above. 

They  stand  before  his  presence  now, 
And  praise  him  better  far  than  we,  — 

Who  only  at  his  footstool  bow, 

And  love  him  whom  we  cannot  see. 

But  God  is  present  everywhere, 

And  watches  all  our  thoughts  and  ways 

He  marks  who  humbly  join  in  prayer, 
And  who  sincerely  sing  his  praise. 


SEEKING   GOD. 

The  triflers,  too,  his  eye  can  see, 

Who  only  seem  to  take  a  part ; 
They  move  the  lip  and  bend  the  knee, 

But  do  not  seek  him  with  the  heart. 

0,  may  we  never  trifle  so, 

Nor  lose  the  days  our  God  has  given  ; 
But  learn,  by  Sabbaths  here  below, 

To  spend  eternity  in  heaven. 

SUNDAY-SCHOOL  HYMNS. 


SEEKING    GOD. 

WE  come  in  childhood's  innocence, 
We  come,  as  children,  free  ! 

We  offer  up,  0  God  !  our  hearts 
In  trusting  love  to  thee. 

Well  may  we  bend,  in  solemn  joy, 
At  thy  bright  courts  above,  — 

Well  may  the  grateful  child  rejoice 
In  such  a  Father's  love. 

In  joy  we  wake,  in  peace  we  sleep, 
Safe  from  all  midnight  harms, 

Not  folded  in  an  angel's  wings, 
But  in  a  Father's  arms. 


132  THE   BEST   OFFERING. 

We  come  not  as  the  mighty  come, 

Not  as  the  proud  we  bow  ; 
But  as  the  pure  in  heart  should  bend, 

Seek  we  thine  altars  now. 

"  Forbid  them  not,"  the  Saviour  said  ;  — 

In  speechless  rapture  dumb, 
We  hear  the  call,  —  we  seek  thy  face,  — 

Father,  we  come  !  —  we  come  ! 

T.  GRAY,  JR. 


THE    BEST    OFFERING. 

LORD,  what  offering  shall  we  bring, 
At  thine  altar  when  we  bow  ? 

Hearts,  the  pure,  unsullied  spring 
Whence  the  kind  affections  flow  ; 

Soft  compassion's  feeling  soul, 
By  the  melting  eye  expressed  ; 

Sympathy,  at  whose  control 

Sorrow  leaves  the  wounded  breast. 

Willing  hands  to  lead  the  blind, 
Bind  the  wounded,  feed  the  poor ; 

Love,  embracing  all  our  kind, 
Charity,  with  liberal  store. 


THE   GOLDEN  RULE.  133 

Teach  us,  0  thou  heavenly  King ! 

Thus  to  show  our  grateful  mind  ; 
Thus  the  accepted  offering  bring,  — 

Love  to  thee  and  all  mankind. 

JANE  TAYLOR. 


THE    GOLDEN    RULE. 

THUS  said  Jesus  :  "  Go,  and  do 
As  thou  wouldst  be  done  unto." 
—  Here  thy  perfect  duty  see, 
All  that  God  requires  of  thee. 

Wouldst  thou  then  rejoice  to  find 
Others  generous,  just,  and  kind  ? 
Think  upon  these  words,  and  do 
As  thou  wouldst  be  done  unto. 

Wouldst  thou,  when  thy  faults  are  known, 
Wish  that  pardon  should  be  shown  ? 
Be  forgiving  then,  and  do 
As  thou  wouldst  be  done  unto. 

Shouldst  thou  helpless  be,  and  poor, 
Wouldst  thou  not  for  aid  implore  ? 
Think  of  others  then,  and  be 
What  thou  wouldst  they  should  to  thee. 


134 


THE   THRONE. 

For  compassion  if  thou  call, 
Be  compassionate  to  all ; 
If  thou  wouldst  affection  find, 
Be  affectionate  and  kind. 

If  thou  wouldst  obtain  the  love 

Of  thy  gracious  God  above  ; 

Then  to  all  his  children  be 

What  thou  wouldst  they  should  to  thee. 

W.  KOSCOE. 


THE  THRONE. 

WHAT  throne  may  bear  the  eternal  God, 
Who  fills  unbounded  space  ? 

What  palace  boast  his  bright  abode, 
What  world  his  dwelling-place  ? 

Ye  stars,  that  gem  yon  glorious  vault, 

Above,  beneath,  around  ! 
Who  most  your  Maker's  praise  exalt, 

Through  nature's  unknown  bound  ; 

Ye  sons  of  light,  your  God's  first-born  ! 

Who  saw,  from  distant  spheres, 
The  dawn  of  this  earth's  natal  morn, 

And  all  its  future  years  ; 


HYMN.  135 

Ask  ye  where  dwells  the  eternal  God  ? 

What  planets  bear  his  feet  ? 
What  clustered  suns  are  his  abode, 

His  burning,  dazzling  seat  ? 

There  is  a  throne  your  God  will  grace,  — 

The  pure  and  lowly  heart ; 
There  will  he  choose  his  dwelling-place, 

And  never  thence  depart. 


HYMN. 

THE  glorious  God  who  reigns  on  high, 
Who  formed  the  earth  and  built  the  sky, 
Stoops  from  his  throne  in  heaven  to  hear 
A  little  infant's  prattling  prayer. 

Father  of  all !  my  Father  too  ! 
0  make  me  good,  and  just,  and  true,  — 
Make  me  delight  to  learn  thy  word, 
And  love  to  pray  and  praise  thee,  Lord  ! 

0  may  thy  gracious  presence  bless 
And  guard  my  childhood's  helplessness ! 
Be  with  me,  as  I  grow  in  years, 
And  guide  me  through  this  vale  of  tears. 

MKS.  OILMAN. 


136  OUR   FATHER   WHO   ART   IN   HEAYEN. 


"OUR   FATHER    WHO    ART   IN    HEAVEN." 

GREAT  God,  and  wilt  thou  condescend 
To  be  my  father  and  my  friend  ? 
I  a  poor  child,  and  thou  so  high, 
The  Lord  of  earth,  and  air,  and  sky  ! 

Art  thou  my  Father  ?  Canst  thou  bear 
To  hear  my  poor,  imperfect  prayer  ? 
Or  stoop  to  listen  to  the  praise 
That  such  a  little  one  can  raise  ? 

Art  thou  my  Father  ?  Let  me  be 
A  meek,  obedient  child  to  thee  ; 
And  try  in  word,  and  deed,  and  thought 
To  serve  and  please  thee  as  I  ought. 

Art  thou  my  Father  ?  I  '11  depend 
Upon  the  care  of  such  a  friend  ; 
And  only  wish  to  do,  and  be, 
Whatever  seemeth  good  to  thee. 

Art  thou  my  Father  ?  Then  at  last, 
When  all  my  days  on  earth  are  past, 
Send  down  and  take  me,  in  thy  love, 
To  be  thy  better  child  above. 

JANE  TAYLOR. 


II  THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD. 


SWEDISH  MOTHER'S  HYMN. 


BY   FREDERIKA   BREMER. 


THERE  sitteth  a  dove,  so  white  and  fair. 

All  on  the  lily  spray, 
And  she  listeneth  how  to  Jesus  Christ 

The  little  children  pray. 
Lightly  she  spreads  her  friendly  wings, 

And  to  Heaven's  gate  hath  sped, 
And  unto  the  Father  in  heaven  she  bears 

The  prayers  which  the  children  have  said. 

And  back  she  comes  from  Heaven's  gate, 

And  brings  —  that  dove  so  mild  !  — 
From  the  Father  in  heaven  who  hears  her  speak 

A  blessing  on  every  child. 
Then  children  lift  up  a  pious  prayer,  — 

It  hears  whatever  you  say, 
That  heavenly  dove,  so  white  and  fair, 

All  on  the  lily  spray. 

TRANS.  BY  Miss  MARY  HOWITT. 


138  THE   INFANT   JESUS. 


"COME    UNTO    ME." 

As  children  once  to  Christ  were  brought, 

That  he  might  bless  them  there, 
So  now  we  little  children  ought 

To  seek  the  same  by  prayer. 

And  as  so  many  years  ago 

Poor  babes  his  pity  drew, 
I  'm  sure  he  will  not  let  me  go 

Without  a  blessing  too. 

Then  while,  this  favor  to  implore, 

My  little  hands  are  spread, 
Do  thou  thy  sacred  blessing  pour, 

Dear  Jesus,  on  my  head. 

HYMNS  FOR  INFANT  MINDS. 


THE    INFANT   JESUS. 

WHAT  lovely  infant  can  this  be, 
That  in  the  little  crib  I  see  ? 
So  sweetly  on  the  straw  it  lies, 
It  must  have  come  from  Paradise. 


THE  INFANT   JESUS.  139 

Who  is  that  lady  kneeling  by, 
And  gazing  on,  so  tenderly  ? 
0,  that  is  Mary,  ever  blest ; 
How  full  of  joy  her  holy  breast ! 

What  man  is  that  who  seems  to  smile 
And  look  so  blissful  all  the  while  ? 
'T  is  holy  Joseph,  good  and  true  ; 
The  infant  makes  him  happy  too. 

Who  makes  the  crib  so  bright  and  dear  ? 
What  voices  sing  so  sweetly  here  ? 
Ah  !  see,  behind  the  window-pane, 
The  little  angels  looking  in  ! 

Who  are  these  people  kneeling  down, 
With  crooked  sticks,  and  hands  so  brown  ? 
The  shepherds  ;  on  the  mountain-top 
The  little  angels  woke  them  up. 

The  ox  and  ass,  how  still  and  mild 
They  stand  beside  the  holy  child  ; 
His  little  body  underneath 
They  warm  so  kindly  with  their  breath. 

Hail,  holy  cave  !  though  dark  thou  be, 
The  world  is  lighted  up  by  thee, 
Hail,  holy  Babe  !  creation  stands 
And  moves  upon  thy  little  hands. 


140  HYMN. 


THE    CHILDREN'S    DESIRE. 

I  THINK,  when  I  read  the  sweet  story  of  old,  — 

How  when  Jesus  was  here  among  men, 
He  once  called  little  children  as  lambs  to  his  fold,  — 

I  should  like  to  have  been  with  them  then. 
I  wish  that  his  hands  had  been  placed  on  my  head, 

That  his  arms  had  been  thrown  around  me  ; 
And  that  I  might  have  seen  his  kind  look,  when  he  said, 

"  Let  the  little  ones  come  unto  me." 

Yet  still  to  his  footstool  in  faith  I  may  go, 

And  there  ask  for  a  share  of  his  love  : 
And  I  know,  if  I  earnestly  seek  him  below, 

I  shall  see  him  and  hear  him  above,  — 
In  that  beautiful  place  he  has  gone  to  prepare 

For  all  those  who  are  washed  and  forgiven  ; 
And  many  dear  children  are  gathering  there, 

"  For  of  such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven." 


HYMN. 


I  WANT  to  be  like  Jesus, 

So  lovely  and  so  meek  ; 
For  no  one  marked  an  angry  word, 

That  ever  heard  him  speak. 


CHRIST'S  LOVE.  141 

I  want  to  be  like  Jesus, 

For  I  never,  never  find 
That  he,  though  persecuted,  was 

To  any  one  unkind. 

I  want  to  be  like  Jesus, 

Engaged  in  doing  good, 
So  that  it  may  of  me  be  said, 

"  She  hath  done  what  she  could.'* 

Alas  !  I  'm  not  like  Jesus, 

As  any  one  may  see  ; 
0  gentle  Saviour,  send  thy  grace 

And  make  me  like  to  thee  ! 

MELODIES  FOR  CHILDHOOD. 


CHRIST'S   LOVE. 

SEE  the  kind  Shepherd,  Jesus,  stands, 
With  all  engaging  charms  ; 

Hark,  how  he  calls  the  tender  lambs, 
And  folds  them  in  his  arms  ! 

Permit  them  to  approach,  he  cries, 
Nor  scorn  their  humble  name  ; 

For  't  was  to  bless  such  souls  as  these 
The  Lord  of  angels  came. 


142  COME   TO   ME. 

He  '11  lead  us  to  the  heavenly  streams 

Where  living  waters  flow, 
And  guide  us  to  the  fruitful  fields 

Where  trees  of  knowledge  grow. 

The  feeblest  lamb  amidst  the  flock 

Shall  be  its  Shepherd's  care  ; 
While  folded  in  the  Saviour's  arms, 

We  're  safe  from  every  snare. 

SUNDAY-SCHOOL  HYMN-BOOK. 


COME    TO    ME. 

"  LITTLE  children,  come  to  me  ;  " 
This  is  what  the  Saviour  said  ; 

Little  children,  come  and  see 

Where  those  blessed  words  are  read, 

Thus  ye  hear  the  Saviour  speak  : 
"  Come  ye  all,  and  learn  of  me, 

I  am  gentle,  lowly,  meek  ;  " 
So  should  little  children  be. 

When  our  Saviour  from  above 
From  his  Father  did  descend, 

Taken  in  his  arms  of  love, 

Children  saw  in  him  their  friend. 


LET   THEM   COME.  143 

Jesus  little  children  blessed  ; 

Blest  in  innocence  they  are  ; 
Little  children,  thus  caressed, 

Praise  him  in  your  infant  prayer  ! 

FOLLEN. 


LET    THEM    COME. 


"  LET  them  come,  the  little  children, 
To  my  fold  and  to  my  hreast," 

Said  the  gentle,  loving  Saviour, 
As  the  children  round  him  pressed, 

May  we  come,  all  false  and  sinning, 
With  our  passions  all  aglow  ? 

Did  he  welcome  thus  the  children  ? 
Would  he  meet  and  bless  us  so  ? 

He  can  help  us  in  our  passion, — 
Teach  us  how  to  turn  away 

From  the  power  of  each  temptation 
That  would  lead  our  lives  astray. 

But  to  have  his  smile  and  favor,  — 
To  be  called  the  Saviour's  own,  — 

We  must  all  be  true  and  tender, 
Seeking,  loving  good  alone. 


144  FORGIVENESS. 

Help  us,  help  us,  gentle  Jesus  ! 

We  are  very  weak  and  small  ; 
Stand  between  us  and  the  evil ; 

Guide  us  through  and  over  all. 

We  will  struggle  daily,  hourly, 
That  we  may  by  thee  be  blest : 

To  thy  fold  0  let  us  enter  ! 
Take  us  to  thy  loving  breast. 


FORGIVENESS. 

WHEN,  for  some  little  insult  given, 

My  angry  passions  rise, 
I  '11  think  how  Jesus  came  from  heaven, 

And  bore  his  injuries. 

He  was  insulted  every  day, 

Though  all  his  words  were  kind  ; 

But  nothing  men  could  do  or  say 
Disturbed  his  heavenly  mind. 

Not  all  the  wicked  scoffs  he  heard, 
Against  the  truths  he  taught, 

Excited  one  reviling  word, 
Or  one  revengeful  thought. 


JESUS.  145 

And  when  upon  the  cross  he  bled, 

With  all  his  foes  in  view, 
"  Father,  forgive  their  sins,"  he  said  ; 

"  They  know  not  what  they  do." 

Dear  Jesus,  may  I  learn  of  thee 

My  temper  to  amend  ; 
And  speak  the  pardoning  word  for  me, 

Whenever  I  offend. 

JANE  TAYLOR. 


JESUS. 

FEEBLE,  helpless,  how  shall  I 
Learn  to  live,  and  learn  to  die  ? 
Who,  0  God  !  my  guide  shall  be  ? 
Who  shall  lead  thy  child  to  thee  ? 

Blessed  Father,  gracious  one  ! 
Thou  hast  sent  thy  holy  Son  ; 
He  will  give  the  light  I  need, 
He  my  trembling  steps  will  lead. 

Through  this  world,  uncertain,  dim, 
Let  me  ever  lean  on  him  ; 
From  his  precepts  wisdom  draw, 
Make  his  life  my  solemn  law. 


146  "GIVE  ME  THY  HEART." 

Thus  in  deed,  and  thought,  and  word, 
Led  by  Jesus  Christ  the  Lord, 
In  my  weakness,  thus  shall  I 
Learn  to  live,  and  learn  to  die  ;  — 

Learn  to  live  in  peace  and  love, 
Like  the  perfect  ones  above  ; 
Learn  to  die  without  a  fear, 
Feeling  thee,  my  Father,  near. 

FURNESS. 


"GIVE    ME    THY    HEART." 

HEAR  ye  not  a  voice  from  heaven, 
To  the  listening  spirit  given  ? 
"  Children,  come  !  "  it  seems  to  say, 
"  Give  your  hearts  to  me  me  to-day.' 

Sweet  as  is  a  mother's  love, 
Tender  as  the  heavenly  Dove, 
Thus  it  speaks  a  Saviour's  charms, 
Thus  it  wins  us  to  his  arms. 

Lord,  may  we  remember  thee, 
While  from  pain  and  sorrow  free  ; 
While  our  day  is  in  its  dew, 
And  the  clouds  of  life  are  few. 


SHEPHERD    OF   ISRAEL.  147 

Then,  when  night  and  age  appear, 
Thou  wilt  chase  each  doubt  and  fear ; 
Thou  our  glorious  leader  be, 
When  the  stars  shall  fade  and  flee. 

Now  to  thee,  0  Lord  !  we  come, 
In  our  morning's  early  bloom  ; 
Breathe  on  us  thy  grace  divine, 
Touch  our  hearts,  and  make  them  thine. 

SUNDAY-SCHOOL  HYMNS. 


SHEPHERD    OF    ISRAEL. 

SHEPHERD  of  Israel,  hear  my  prayer, 
And  to  my  cry  give  heed  ; 

Shepherd  of  Israel,  lead  me  where 
Thy  flocks  in  safety  feed. 

Whether  upon  the  barren  hills, 

Or  on  the  desert  bare, 
Strike  but  thy  rod,  the  purest  rills 

And  greenest  herbs  are  there. 

The  shadow  of  a  mighty  rock 

Is  in  that  weary  land, 
And  heavenly  dews  fall  on  the  flock 

Protected  by  thy  hand. 


148  FOE   A   CHRISTIAN   CHILD. 

The  winds  that  blight,  the  wolves  that  slay, 

In  vain  their  fury  spend  ; 
Thy  crook  of  love  points  out  the  way, 

Thy  gracious  arms  defend. 

Lead  me,  0  lead  me  to  thy  fold  ! 

Earth  has  no  rest  beside  ; 
Shepherd  of  Israel,  known  of  old, 

Be  only  thou  my  guide. 

Whether  the  way  be  dark  and  drear, 

Or  flowery,  bright,  and  fair, 
Shepherd  of  Israel,  be  thou  near, 

And  keep  my  footsteps  there. 

Whether  where  trees  of  Lebanon 

Or  tents  of  Kedar  rise, 
Shepherd  of  Israel,  lead  me  on  — 

My  home  is  in  the  skies. 

SACRED  OFFERING. 


FOR    A    CHRISTIAN    CHILD. 

SEEING  I  am  Jesus'  lamb, 
Ever  glad  at  heart  I  am 
O'er  my  Shepherd  kind  and  good, 
Who  provides  me  daily  food, 
And  his  lamb  by  name  doth  call, . 
For  he  knows  and  loves  us  all. 


CHRISTMAS.  149 

Guided  by  his  gentle  staff 
Where  the  sunny  pastures  laugh, 
I  go  in  and  out  and  feed, 
Lacking  nothing  that  I  need ; 
When  I  thirst,  my  feet  he  brings 
To  the  fresh  and  living  springs. 

Must  I  not  rejoice  for  this  ? 

He  is  mine,  and  I  am  his  ; 

And  when  these  bright  days  are  past, 

Safely  in  his  arms  at  last 

He  will  bear  me  home  to  heaven  ; 

Ah,  what  joy  hath  Jesus  given  ! 

Louis  H.  VON  HAYM. 


CHRISTMAS. 

'T  is  Christmas  day !  glad  voices 

Repeat  the  pleasant  sound  ; 
And  happy  faces  in  our  home, 

And  loving  looks,  abound. 
Why  do  we  thus  greet  Christmas  morn  ? 
It  is  the  day  that  Christ  was  born. 

With  little  gifts  that  tell  our  love, 

With  garlands  on  the  wall, 
With  thankful  hearts  and  helpful  han 

We  keep  a  festival. 


L50  CHRISTMAS. 

Why  do  we  thus  keep  Christmas  morn  ? 
Tt  is  the  day  that  Christ  was  born. 

Full  eighteen  hundred  years  ago 

Christ  Jesus  came  on  earth,  — 
He  came,  he  lived,  he  died  for  us  : 

We  thank  God  for  his  birth  ; 
And  therefore  we  keep  Christmas  morn, 
The  day  our  Saviour,  Christ,  was  born. 

And  on  this  Christmas  morning, 

When  the  frost  is  at  the  door, 
Dear  child  !  in  your  warm,  pleasant  home, 

Think  of  the  sick  and  poor  : 
So  shall  you  well  keep  Christmas  morn, 
The  day  our  Saviour,  Christ,  was  born. 

Christ  healed  the  sick,  and  helped  the  poor, 

When  he  was  on  the  earth : 
Do  what  you  can  to  be  like  him 

This  morning  of  his  birth  ; 
Help  some  one  to  keep  .Christmas  morn, 
The  day  your  Saviour,  Christ,  was  born. 

HYMNS  FOR  YOUNG  CHILDREN. 


JESUS  AND  THE  DOVE.  151 


JESUS    AND    THE    DOVE. 


A   CATHOLIC  LEGEND. 


With  patient  hand  Jesus  in  clay  once  wrought, 
And  made  a  snowy  dove  that  upward  flew : 

Dear  child,  from  all  things  draw  some  holy  thought, 
That,  like  his  dove,  they  may  fly  upward  too. 


MARY,  the  mother  good  and  mild, 
Went  forth  one  summer's  day, 

That  Jesus  and  his  comrades  all 
In  meadows  green  might  play. 

To  find  the  brightest,  freshest  flowers, 
They  search  the  meadows  round, 

They  twined  them  all  into  a  wreath, 
And  little  Jesus  crowned. 

Tired  of  play,  they  came  at  last 

And  sat  at  Mary's  feet, 
While  Jesus  asked  his  mother  dear 

A  story  to  repeat. 

"  And  we,"  said  one,  "  from  out  this  clay 

Will  make  some  little  birds, 
So  shall  we  all  sit  quietly 

And  heed  the  mother's  words." 


152  JESUS   AND   THE   DOVE. 

Then  Mary,  in  her  gentle  voice, 

Told  of  a  little  child, 
Who  lost  her  way  one  dark,  dark  night 

Upon  a  dreary  wild  ; 

And  how  an  angel  came  to  her, 
And  made  all  bright  around, 

And  took  the  trembling  little  one 
From  off  the  damp,  hard  ground  ; 

And  how  he  bore  her  in  his  arms 

Up  to  the  blue  so  far, 
And  how  he  laid  her  fast  asleep, 

Down  in  a  silver  star. 

The  children  sit  at  Mary's -feet, 

But  not  a  word  they  say, 
So  busily  their  fingers  work 

To  mould  the  birds  of  clay. 

But  now  the  clay  that  Jesus  held 
And  turned  unto  the  light, 

And  moulded  with  a  patient  touch, 
Changed  to  a  perfect  white. 

And  slowly  grew  within  his  hands 

A  fair  and  gentle  dove, 
Whose  eyes  unclose,  whose  wings  unfold, 

Beneath  his  look  of  love. 


JESUS   AND   THE   DOVE.  153 

The  children  drop  their  birds  of  clay, 

And  by  his  side  they  stand, 
To  look  upon  the  wondrous  dove 

He  holds  within  his  hand. 

And  when  he  bends  and  softly  breathes, 

Wide  are  the  wings  outspread, 
And  when  he  bends  and  breathes  again, 

It  hovers  round  his  head. 

Slowly  it  rises  in  the  air 

Before  their  eager  eyes, 
And  with  a  white  and  steady  wing, 

Higher  and  higher  flies. 

The  children  all  stretch  forth  their  arms, 

As  if  to  draw  it  down  : 
"  Dear  Jesus  made  the  little  dove 

From  out  the  clay  so  brown. 

"  Canst  thou  not  live  with  us  below, 

Thou  little  dove  of  clay, 
And  let  us  hold  thee  in  our  hands, 

And  feed  thee  every  day  ? 

"  The  little  dove,  it  hears  us  not, 

But  higher  still  doth  fly  ; 
It  could  not  live  with  us  below, 

Its  home  is  in  the  sky." 

7* 


154  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 

Mary,  who  silently  saw  all, 

That  mother  true  and  mild, 
Folded  her  hands  upon  her  breast, 

And  kneeled  before  her  child. 

MARIA  LOWELL. 


NEW    YEAR'S    EYE. 

The  following  stanzas  are  a  translation,  or  rather  adaptation,  from  a  Swedish 
tale,  by  ANDEKSEN. 

LITTLE  Gretchen,  little  Gretchen, 
Wanders  up  and  down  the  street, 

The  snow  is  on  her  yellow  hair, 
The  frost  is  at  her  feet. 

The  rows  of  long  dark  houses 

Without,  look  cold  and  damp, 
By  the  struggling  of  the  moonbeam, 

By  the  flicker  of  the  lamp. 

The  clouds  ride  fast  as  horses, 

The  wind  is  from  the  north, 
But  no  one  cares  for  Gretchen, 

And  no  one  looketh  forth. 

Within  those  dark,  damp  houses 

Are  merry  faces  bright, 
And  happy  hearts  are  watching  out 

The  old  year's  latest  night. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE.  155 

The  board  is  spread  with  plenty, 
Where  the  smiling  kindred  meet ; 

But  the  frost  is  on  the  pavement, 
And  the  beggars  in  the  street. 

With  the  little  box  of  matches 

She  could  not  sell  all  day, 
And  the  thin,  thin  tattered  mantle 

The  wind  blows  every  way. 

She  clingeth  to  the  railing, 

She  shivers  in  the  gloom,  — 
There  are  parents  sitting  snugly 

By  firelight  in  the  room  ; 

And  groups  of  busy  children, 

Withdrawing  just  the  tips 
Of  rosy  fingers  pressed  in  vain 

Against  their  burning  lips, 

With  grave  and  earnest  faces, 

Are  whispering  each  other 
Of  presents  for  the  new  year,  made 

For  father  or  for  mother. 

But  no  one  talks  to  Gretclien, 

And  no  one  hears  her  speak, 
No  breath  of  little  whisperers 

Comes  warmly  to  her  cheek  ; 


156  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 

No  little  arms  are  round  her, 
Ah  me  !  that  there  should  be, 

With  so  much  happiness  on  earth, 
So  much  of  misery  ! 

Sure  they  of  many  blessings 
Should  scatter  blessings  round, 

As  laden  boughs  in  autumn  fling 
Their  ripe  fruits  to  the  ground. 

And  the  best  love  man  can  offer 
To  the  God  of  love,  be  sure, 

Is  kindness  to  his  little  ones, 
And  bounty  to  his  poor. 

Little  Gretchen,  little  Gretchen 
Goes  coldly  on  her  way  ; 

There  's  no  one  looketh  out  at  her, 
There  's  no  one  bids  her  stay. 

Her  home  is  cold  and  desolate, 
No  smile,  no  food,  no  fire, 

But  children  clamorous  for  bread, 
And  an  impatient  sire. 

So  she  sits  down  in  an  angle, 
Where  two  great  houses  meet, 

And  she  curleth  up  beneath  her, 
For  warmth,  her  little  feet. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE.  157 

And  she  looketh  on  the  cold  wall, 

And  on  the  colder  sky, 
And  wonders  if  the  little  stars 

Are  bright  fires  up  on  high. 

She  heard  a  clock  strike  slowly, 

Up  in  a  far  church-tower, 
With  such  a  sad  and  solemn  tone, 

Telling  the  midnight  hour. 

Then  all  the  bells  together 

Their  merry  music  poured  ; 
They  were  ringing  in  the  feast, 

The  circumcision  of  the  Lord. 

And  she  thought  as  she  sat  lonely, 

And  listened  to  the  chime, 
Of  wondrous  things  that  she  had  loved 

To  hear  in  the  olden  time. 

And  she  remembered  her  of  tales 

Her  mother  used  to  tell, 
And  of  the  cradle-songs  she  sang, 

When  summer's  twilight  fell ;  — 

Of  good  men  and  of  angels, 

And  of  the  Holy  Child, 
Who  was  cradled  in  a  manger, 

When  winter  was  most  wild. 


158  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 

Who  was  poor,  and  cold,  and  hungry, 
And  desolate  and  lone  ; 

And  she  thought  the  song  had  told 
He  was  ever  with  his  own. 

And  all  the  poor  and  hungry, 
And  forsaken  ones  are  his  : 

"  How  good  of  him  to  look  on  me, 
In  such  a  place  as  this." 

Colder  it  grows  and  colder, 
But  she  does  not  feel  it  now, 

For  the  pressure  at  her  heart, 
And  the  weight  upon  her  brow. 

But  she  struck  one  little  match 
On  the  wall  so  cold  and  bare, 

That  she  might  look  around  her, 
And  see  if  He  were  there. 

The  single  match  has  kindled, 
And  by  the  light  it  threw, 

It  seemed  to  little  Gretchen, 
The  wall  was  rent  in  two. 

And  she  could  see  the  room  within, 
The  room  all  warm  and  bright, 

With  the  fire-glow  red,  and  dusky, 
And  the  tapers  all  alight. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EYE.  159 

And  there  were  kindred  gathered, 

Round  the  table  richly  spread, 
With  heaps  of  goodly  viands, 

Red  wine,  and  pleasant  bread. 

She  could  smell  the  fragrant  savor, 

She  could  hear  what  they  did  say, 
Then  all  was  darkness  once  again, 

The  match  had  burned  away. 

. 
She  struck  another  hastily, 

And  now  she  seemed  to  see, 
Within  the  same  warm  chamber, 

A  glorious  Christmas-tree. 

The  branches  were  all  laden 

With  such  things  as  children  prize,  — 
Bright  gift  for  boy  and  maiden, 

She  saw  them  with  her  eyes. 

And  she  almost  seemed  to  touch  them, 

And  to  join  the  welcome  shout ; 
When  darkness  fell  around  her, 

For  the  little  match  was  out. 

Another,  yet  another,  she 

Has  tried  ;  they  will  not  light, 
Till  all  her  little  store  she  took, 

And  struck  with  all  her  might. 


160  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 

And  the  whole  miserable  place 
Was  lighted  with  the  glare, 

.And  lo  !  there  hung  a  little  child 
Before  her  in  the  air. 

There  were  blood-drops  on  his  forehead, 
And  a  spear-wound  in  his  side, 

And  cruel  nail-prints  in  his  feet, 
And  in  his  hands  spread  wide. 

And  he  looked  upon  her  gently, 

And  she  felt  that  he  had  known 
Pain,  hunger,  cold,  and  sorrow, 
Ay,  equal  to  her  own. 

And  he  pointed  to  the  laden  board, 

And  to  the  Christmas-tree, 
Then  up  to  the  cold  sky,  and  said, 

"  Will  Gretchen  come  with  me  ?  " 

The  poor  child  felt  her  pulses  fail, 

She  felt  her  eyeballs  swim, 
And  a  ringing  sound  was  in  her  ears, 

Like  her  dead  mother's  hymn. 

And  she  folded  both  her  thin  white  hands, 
And  turned  from  that  bright  board, 

And  from  the  golden  gifts,  and  said, 
"  With  thee,  with  thee,  0  Lord." 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE.  161 

The  chilly  winter  morning 

Breaks  up  in  the  dull  skies, 
On  the  city  wrapt  in  vapor, 

On  the  spot  where  Gretchen  lies. 

The  night  was  wild  and  stormy, 

The  morn  is  cold  and  gray, 
And  good  church-bells  are  ringing. 

Christ's  circumcision  day. 

And  holy  men  were  praying 

In  many  a  holy  place  ; 
And  little  children's  angels 

Sing  songs  before  his  face. 

In  her  scant  and  tattered  garment, 

With  her  back  against  the  wall, 
She  sitteth  cold  and  rigid, 

She  answers  not  their  call. 

They  have  lifted  her  up  fearfully, 

They  shuddered  as  they  said, 
"  It  was  a  bitter,  bitter  night, 

The  child  is  frozen  dead." 

The  angels  sang  their  greeting, 
For  one  more  redeemed  from  sin  ; 

Men  said,  "  It  was  a  bitter  night, 
Would  no  one  let  her  in  ?  " 


162  AN   EASTERN   LEGEND. 

And  they  shuddered  as  they  spoke  of  her, 
And  sighed  :  they  could  not  see, 

How  much  of  happiness  there  was 
With  so  much  misery. 


AN    EASTERN    LEGEND. 

ONE  evening  Jesus  lingered  in  the  market-place, 
Teaching  the  people  parables  of  truth  and  grace, 
When  in  the  square  remote  a  crowd  was  seen  to  rise, 
And  stop,  with  loathing  gestures  and  abhorring  cries. 

The  Master  and  his  meek  disciples  went  to  see 
What  cause  for  this  commotion  and  disgust  could  be, 
And  found  a  poor  dead  dog  beside  the  gutter  laid  ; 
Revolting  sight !  at  which  each  face  its  hate  betrayed. 

One  held  his  nose,  one  shut  his  eyes,  one  turned  away ; 
And  all  among  themselves  began  aloud  to  say  : 
"  Detested  creature! "  "He  pollutes  the  earth  and  air  !  " 
"  His  eyes  are  blear  !  "  "  His  ears  are  foul !  "  "  His  ribs 
are  bare ! " 

u  In  his  torn  hide  there  's  not  a  decent  shoe-string  left! " 
"  No  doubt  the  execrable  cur  was  hung  for  theft !  " 
Then  Jesus  spake,  and  dropped  on  him   this   saving 

wreath, 
"  Even  pearls  are  dark  before  the  whiteness  of  his  teeth ! " 


LOVE   TO    JESUS.  163 

The  pelting  crowd  grew  silent  and  ashamed,  like  one 
Rebuked  by  sight  of  wisdom  higher  than  his  own  ; 
And  one  exclaimed,  "  No  creature  so  accursed  can  be, 
But  some  good  thing  in  him  a  loving  eye  will  see." 

ALGEK'S  EASTERN  POETRY. 


LOVE    TO    JESUS. 

WHEN  Jesus  Christ  was  here  below, 
And  spread  his  works  of  love  abroad, 
If  I  had  lived  as  long  ago, 
I  think  I  should  have  loved  the  Lord. 

Jesus,  who  was  so  very  kind, 

Who  came  to  pardon  sinful  men, 

Who  healed  the  sick,  and  cured  the  blind  — 

0,  must  I  not  have  loved  him  then  ? 

But  where  is  Jesus  ?  — -is  he  dead  ? 

0  no  !  he  lives  in  heaven  above ; 

"  And  blest  are  they,"  the  Saviour  said, 

"  Who,  though  they  have  not  seen  me,  love." 

JANE  TAYLOR. 


III.    MOENING  AND   EVENING  HYMNS. 


THE    GUARDIAN    ANGEL. 

DEAR  Angel !  ever  at  my  side, 

How  loving  must  thou  be 
To  leave  thy  home  in  Heaven  to  guard 

A  little  child  like  me  ! 

Thy  beautiful  and  shining  face 

I  see  not,  though  so  near  ; 
The  sweetness  of  thy  soft,  low  voice 

I  am  too  deaf  to  hear. 

I  cannot  feel  thee  touch  my  hand 
With  pressure  light  and  mild, 

To  check  me,  as  my  mother  did 
When  I  was  but  a  child. 

But  I  have  felt  thee  in  my  thoughts, 

Fighting  with  sin  for  me  ; 
And  when  my  heart  loves  God,  I  know 

The  sweetness  is  from  thee. 


THE   GUARDIAN   ANGEL.  165 

And  when,  dear  Spirit,  I  kneel  down 

Morning  and  night  to  prayer, 
Something  there  is  within  my  heart 

Which  tells  me  thou  art  there. 

Yes  !  when  I  pray,  thou  prayest  too  — 

Thy  prayer  is  all  for  me ; 
And  when  I  sleep,  thou  sleepest  not, 

But  watchest  patiently. 

Ah  me  !  how  lovely  they  must  be 

Whom  God  has  glorified  ; 
Yet  one  of  them,  0  sweetest  thought ! 

Is  ever  at  my  side. 

And  thou  in  life's  last  hour  wilt  bring 

A  fresh  supply  of  grace, 
And  afterwards  wilt  let  me  kiss 

Thy  beautiful  bright  face. 

Then  for  thy  sake,  dear  Angel !  now 

More  humble  will  I  be  : 
But  I  am  weak,  and  when  I  fall, 

0  weary  not  for  me  ; 

But  love  me,  love  me,  Angel  dear  ! 

And  I  will  love  thee  more  ; 
And  help  me  when  my  soul  is  cast 

Upon  the  eternal  shore. 

F.  W.  FABER. 


166  CHILD'S  SONG. 


BIRDS    AND    ANGELS. 

HIGH  the  feathered  warblers  fly, 
Singing  in  the  clear  blue  sky; 
Higher  still  the  angels  soar, 
And  sing  in  Heaven  evermore. 

Birds,  come  rest  your  wings  awhile, 
With  me  here  the  hours  beguile ; 
Angels,  downward  turn  your  love, 
Tell  me  of  the  joys  above. 

SONGS  FROM  THE  GERMAN. 


CHILD'S    SONG. 

FROM   THE   GERMAN. 

WHEN  at  night  I  go  to  sleep, 

Fourteen  angels  are  at  hand  ;  — 
Two  on  my  right  their  watches  keep  ; 

Two  on  my  left  to  bless  me  stand  ; 
Two  hover  gently  o'er  my  head  ; 
Two  guard  the  foot  of  my  small  bed  ; 
Two  wake  me  with  the  sun's  first  ray  ; 
Two  dress  me  nicely  every  day  ; 
Two  guide  me  on  the  heavenly  road 
That  leads  to  Paradise  and  God. 

MRS.  FOLLEN. 


THE   ANGELS.  167 


THE    ANGELS. 

"  WHERE  are  the  angels,  mother  ? 

Though  you  have  often  said 
They  watched  at  night  around  me, 

And  safely  kept  my  bed  ; 

"  Though  every  night  I  listen 
Their  voices  low  to  hear, 

Yet  I  have  never  heard  them  — 
Where  are  they,  mother  dear  ? 

"  And  when  the  silver  moonshine 
Fills  all  my  room  with  light, 

And  when  the  stars  are  shining, 
So  countless  and  so  bright, 

"  I  hope  to  see  them  coming, 
With  their  fair  forms,  to  me  ; 

Y"et  I  have  never  seen  them  — 
Mother,  where  can  they  be  ? 

"  I  saw  a  cloud,  this  evening, 
Red  with  the  setting  sun  ; 

It  was  so  very  lovely, 

I  thought  it  might  be  one. 


168  THE   ANGELS. 

"  But  when  it  faded  slowly, 

I  knew  it  could  not  be, 
For  they  are  always  shining  — 

Why  come  they  not  to  me  ?  " 

"  My  child,  when  through  your  window 
Shines  down  the  moonlight  clear,  — 

"When  all  is  still  and  silent, 
And  no  kind  friend  is  near,  — 

"  Are  you  not  glad  and  happy, 
And  full  of  thoughts  of  love  ? 

Do  you  not  think  of  heaven, 
That  brighter  land  above  ? 

"  These  thoughts  the  angels  bring  you  ; 

And  though  the  gentle  tone 
Of  their  sweet  voices  comes  not 

When  you  are  all  alone  ; 

"  Yet  they  are  always  leaving, 
For  earth,  their  homes  on  high  ; 

And  though  you  cannot  see  them, 
You  feel  that  they  are  nigh." 


I   WANT   TO   BE   AN   ANGEL.  169 


I    WANT    TO    BE    AN    ANGEL 

I  WANT  to  be  an  angel, 

And  with  the  angels  stand  ; 
A  crown  upon  my  forehead, 

And  a  harp  within  my  hand. 
Then,  right  before  my  Saviour, 

So  glorious  and  so  bright, 
I  'd  make  the  sweetest  music, 

And  praise  him  day  and  night. 

I  never  should  be  weary, 

Nor  ever  shed  a  tear, 
Nor  ever  know  a  sorrow, 

Nor  ever  feel  a  fear. 
But,  blessed,  pure,  and  holy, 

I  'd  dwell  in  Jesus'  sight ; 
And  with  ten  thousand  thousand, 

Praise  him  both  day  and  night. 

I  know  1  'm  weak  and  sinful, 

But  Jesus  will  forgive  ; 
For  many  little  children 

Have  gone  to  heaven  to  live. 
Dear  Saviour,  when  I  languish, 

And  lay  me  down  to  die, 
0  send  a  shining  angel 

To  bear  me  to  the  sky  ! 

8 


170 


0,  there  I  '11  be  an  angel, 

And  with  the  angels  stand  ; 
A  crown  upon  my  forehead, 

A  harp  within  my  hand  ! 
And  there,  before  my  Saviour, 

So  glorious  and  so  bright, 
I  '11  join  the  heavenly  music 

And  praise  him  day  and  night ! 

MELODIES  FOR  CHILDHOOD. 


A    CHILD'S    PEAYER. 

LORD,  teach  a  little  child  to  pray, 
And  oh !  accept  my  prayer ; 

Thou  canst  hear  all  the  words  I  say, 
For  thou  art  everywhere. 

A  little  sparrow  cannot  fall 

Unnoticed,  Lord,  by  thee  ; 
And  though  I  am  so  young  and  small, 

Thou  dost  take  care  of  me. 

Teach  me  to  do  whate'er  is  right, 

And  when  I  sin,  forgive  ; 
And  make  it  still  my  chief  delight 

To  serve  thee  while  I  live. 


THE   LORD'S   PRAYER.  171 


"BEAR  EACH   OTHER'S  BURDENS." 

HELP  us  to  help  each  other,  Lord, 
Each  other's  cross  to  bear  ; 

Let  each  his  friendly  aid  afford, 
And  feel  his  brother's  care. 

Help  us  to  build  each  other  up ; 

Our  little  stock  improve  ; 
Increase  our  faith,  confirm  our  hope, 

And  perfect  us  in  love. 

Up  into  thee,  our  living  Head, 

Let  us  in  all  things  grow, 
Till  thou  hast  made  us  free  indeed, 

And  spotless  here  below. 


THE    LORD'S    PRAYER. 

OUR  Father,  who  in  heaven  art, 
All  hallowed  be  thy  name  ! 

Thy  kingdom  come,  thy  will  be  done 
In  earth  and  heaven  the  same. 

Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread  ; 

Our  trespasses  forgive, 
As  those  who  trespass  against  us 

Our  pardon  shall  receive. 


172  MORNING   SONG. 

Into  temptation  lead  us  not, 

Deliver  us  from  ill ; 
For  thine  the  kingdom,  thine  the  power, 

And  thine  the  glory  still ! 


SACRED  OFFERING. 


THE    SUN. 

GET  up,  dear  children,  see !  the  sun 
His  shining  course  has  just  begun  ! 
So  like  a  giant  he  comes  forth 
To  run  his  course  and  light  the  earth. 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  lovely  day  ! 
Thou  chasest  darksome  night  away  ; 
0  that  our  hearts,  like  thee,  were  bright 
With  Heaven's  own  purifying  light ! 

GERMAN  SONGS. 


MORNING    SONG. 

WITH  the  dawn  awaking, 
Lord,  I  sing  thy  praise  ; 

Guide  me  to  thee,  making 
Me  to  know  thy  ways. 

All  thy  precepts  keeping 
Whole  and  undefiled, 

Waking,  Lord,  or  sleeping, 
Let  me  be  thy  child. 


IBID. 


PRAYER.  173 


PRAYER. 

WAKE,  little  child,  the  morn  is  gay, 

The  air  is  fresh  and  cool ; 
But  pause  awhile,  and  kneel  to  pray 
Before  you  go  to  merry  play, 

Before  you  go  to  school. 

Kneel  down  and  speak  the  holy  words  : 

God  loves  your  simple  prayer 
Above  the  sweet  songs  of  the  birds, 
The  bleating  of  the  gentle  herds, 

The  flowers  that  scent  the  air. 

And  when  the  qniet  evenings  come, 

And  dew-drops  wet  the  sod, 
When  bats  and  owls  begin  to  roam, 
And  flocks  and  herds  are  driven  home. 

Then  kneel  again  to  God. 

Because  you  need  him  day  and  night, 

To  shield  you  with  his  arm  ; 
To  help  you  always  to  do  right, 
To  feed  your  soul  and  give  it  light, 

And  keep  you  safe  from  harm. 

MELODIES  FOR  CHILDHOOD. 


174  MORNING   HYMN. 


MORNING    HYMN. 

AWAKE,  my  soul,  and  with  the  sun 
Thy  daily  stage  of  duty  run  ; 
Shake  off  dull  sloth,  and  joyful  rise 
To  pay  thy  morning  sacrifice. 

Wake,  and  lift  up  thyself,  my  heart, 
And  with  the  angels  bear  thy  part, 
Who  all  night  long  unwearied  sing 
High  praises  to  the  Eternal  King. 

Glory  to  thee,  who  safe  hast  kept, 
And  hast  refreshed  me  while  I  slept : 
Grant,  Lord,  when  I  from  death  shall  wake, 
I  may  of  endless  life  partake. 

Lord,  I  to  thee  my  vows  renew  ; 

Dispel  my  sins  as  morning  dew  ; 

Guard  my  first  springs  of  thought  and  will, 

And  with  thyself  my  spirit  fill. 

Direct,  control,  suggest,  this  day, 
All  I  design,  or  do,  or  say, 
That  all  my  powers,  with  true  delight, 
To  thy  sole  glory  may  unite. 

BISHOP  KENN. 


EVENING   HYMN.  175 


MORNING    HYMN. 

0  GOD  !  I  thank  thee  that  the  night 
In- peace  and  rest  hath  passed  away  ;    . 

And  that  I  see,  in  this  fair  light, 

My  Father's  smile,  which  makes  it  day. 

Be  thou  my  Guide,  and  let  me  live 

As  under  thine  all-seeing  eye  : 
Supply  my  wants,  my  sins  forgive, 

And  make  me  happy  when  I  die. 

REV.  J.  PlERPONT. 


EVENING    HYMN. 

ANOTHER  day  its  course  hath  run, 
And  still,  0  God  !  thy  child  is  blest ; 

For  thou  hast  been  by  day  my  sun, 
And  thou  wilt  be  by  night  my  rest. 

Sweet  sleep  descends,  mine  eyes  to  close  ; 

And  now,  when  all  the  world  is  still, 
I  give  my  body  to  repose, 

My  spirit  to  my  Father's  will. 

IBID 


176  GOOD  NIGHT. 


GOOD    NIGHT. 

THE  sun  is  hidden  from  our  sight, 

The  birds  are  sleeping  sound  ; 
'T  is  time  to  say  to  all,  "  Good  night !  " 

And  give  a  kiss  all  round. 

Good  night !  my  father,  mother,  dear, 

Now  kiss  your  little  son  ; 
Good  night !  my  friends,  both  far  and  near, 

Good  night  to  every  one. 

Good  night !  ye  merry,  merry  birds, 

Sleep  well  till  morning  light ; 
Perhaps  if  you  could  sing  in  words, 

You  would  have  said,  u  Good  night !  " 

To  all  my  pretty  flowers,  good  night ! 

You  blossom  while  I  sleep  ; 
And  all  the  stars,  that  shine  so  bright, 

With  you  their  watches  keep. 

The  moon  is  lighting  up  the  skies, 

The  stars  are  sparkling  there  ; . 
'T  is  time  to  shut  our  weary  eyes, 

And  say  our  evening  prayer. 

MRS.  FOLLEN. 


EVENING   HYMN.  177 

THE    GOOD    BOY'S    HYMN    ON    GOING    TO    BED. 

How  sweet  to  lay  my  weary  head 
Upon  my  quiet  little  bed, 
And  feel  assured,  that  all  day  long 
I  have  not  knowingly  done  wrong  ! 

How  sweet  to  hear  my  mother  say, 
"  You  have  been  very  good  to-day  !  " 
How  sweet  to  see  my  father's  joy 
When  he  can  say,  "  My  dear,  good  boy  !  " 

How  sweet  it  is  my  thoughts  to  send 
To  many  a  dear-loved  distant  friend, 
And  feel,  if  they  my  heart  could  see, 
How  very  happy  they  would  be  ! 

How  sweet  to  think  that  He  whose  love 
Made  all  these  shining  worlds  above, 
My  pure  and  happy  heart  can  see, 
And  loves  a  little  boy  like  me  ! 

MRS.  FOLLEN. 


EVENING    HYMN. 

Now  the  sun  hath  gone  so  rest, 
Stars  are  coming  faint  and  dim, 

And  the  bird  within  his  nest 
Sweetly  sings  his  evening  hymn. 

8*  L 


178  EVENING   HYMN. 

Have  I  tried  mamma  to  mind  ? 

Was  I  gentle  in  my  play  ? 
Have  I  been  a  true  and  kind, 

Pleasant  little  girl  to-day  ? 


EVENING    HYMN. 

JESUS,  tender  Shepherd,  hear  me  ; 

Bless  thy  little  lamb  to-night : 
Through  the  darkness  be  thou  near  me, 

Watch  my  sleep  till  morning  light. 

All  this  day  thy  hand  has  led  me, 

And  I  thank  thee  for  thy  care  ; 
Thou  hast  clothed  me,  warmed,  and  fed  me  ; 

Listen  to  my  evening  prayer. 

Let  my  sins  be  all  forgiven, 

Bless  the  friends  I  love  so  well ; 
Take  me,  when  I  die,  to  heaven, 

Happy  there  with  thee  to  dwell. 

M.  L.  DUNCAN. 


EVENING    HYMN. 

GOD  has  kept  me,  dearest  mother, 
Kindly,  safely,  through  the  day  ; 


EVENING   HYMN.  179 

Let  me  thank  him  for  his  goodness. 
Ere  the  twilight  fades  away. 

For  my  home  and  friends  I  thank  him, 

For  my  father,  mother,  dear ; 
For  the  hills,  the  trees,  the  flowers, 

And  the  sky  so  bright  and  clear. 

If  I  have  been  kind  and  gentle, 

If  I  've  spoken  what  was  true, 
Or  if  I  've  been  cross  and  selfish, 

He  has  seen  and  known  it,  too. 

Those  I  love  he  will  watch  over, 

Though  they  may  be  far  away, 
For  he  loves  good  little  children, 

And  will  hear  the  words  they  say. 


EVENING    HYMN. 

THOU,  from  whom  we  never  part, 
Thou,  whose  love  is  everywhere, 

Thou,  who  seest  every  heart, 
Listen  to  our  evening  prayer. 

Father  !  fill  our  souls  with  love,  — 
Love  unfailing,  full,  and  free, 

Love  no  injury  can  move, 
Love  that  ever  rests  on  thee. 


180  EVENING   HYMN. 

Heavenly  Father  !  through  the  night 

Keep  us  safe  from  every  ill ; 
Cheerful  as  the  morning  light, 

May  we  wake  to  do  thy  will. 

MRS.  FOLLEN. 


EVENING    HYMN. 

BEFORE  I  close  my  eyes  to-night, 
Let  me  myself  these  questions  ask  : 

Have  I  endeavored  to  do  right, 
Nor  thought  my  duty  was  a  task  ? 

Have  I  been  gentle,  lowly,  meek, 

And  the  small  voice  of  conscience  heard  ? 

When  passion  tempted  me  to  speak, 
Have  I  repressed  the  angry  word  ? 

Have  I  with  cheerful  zeal  oheyed 
What  my  kind  parents  bid  me  do, 

And  not  by  word  or  action  said 

The  thing  that  was  not  strictly  true  ? 

In  hard  temptation's  troubled  hour, 
Then  have  I  stopped  to  think  and  pray, 

That  God  would  give  my  soul  the  power 
To  chase  the  sinful  thought  away  ? 


EVENING   HYMN.  181 

0  Thou  who  seest  all  my  heart, 

Wilt  thou  forgive  and  love  me  still ! 

Wilt  thou  to  me  new  strength  impart, 
And  make  me  love  to  do  thy  will ! 

MKS.  FOLLEN. 


EVENING    HYMN. 

GLORY  to  thee,  my  God !  this  night, 
For  all  the  blessings  of  the  light : 
Keep  me,  0  keep  me,  King  of  kings, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  thy  wings  ! 

Forgive  me,  Lord,  through  thy  dear  Son, 
The  ills  which  I  this  day  have  done  ; 
That  with  the  world,  myself,  and  thee, 
I,  ere  I  sleep,  at  peace  may  be. 

Teach  me  to  live,  that  I  may  dread 
The  grave  as  little  as  my  bed  ; 
Teach  me  to  die,  that  so  I  may 
Rise  joyful  at  the  judgment-day. 

Be  thou  my  guardian  while  I  sleep  ; 
Thy  watchful  station  near  me  keep  ; 
My  heart  with  love  celestial  fill, 
And  guard  me  from  the  approach  of  ill. 


182  AN   EVENING   PRAYER. 

Lord,  let  my  heart  forever  share 

The  bliss  of  thy  paternal  care  : 

'T  is  heaven  on  earth,  't  is  heaven  above, 

To  see  thy  face  and  sing  thy  love. 

BISHOP  KENN. 


AN    EVENING    PRAYER. 

LORD,  thine  eye  is  closed  never  ; 

When  night  casts  o'er  earth  her  hood, 
Thou  remainest  wakeful  ever, 

And  art  like  a  shepherd  good, 
"Who,  through  every  darksome  hour, 
Tends  his  flock  with  watchful  power. 

Grant,  0  Lord !  that  we  thy  sheep 
May  this  night  in  safety  sleep  ; 
And  when  we  again  awake, 
Give  us  strength  our  cross  to  take  ; 
And  to  order  all  our  ways 
To  thine  honor  and  thy  praise. 

Or,  if  thou  hast  willed  that  I 
Must  before  the  morning  die, 
Into  thy  hands  to  the  end, 
Soul  and  body  I  commend. 

Amen. 

SONGS  FROM  THE  GERMAN. 


IV.    MISCELLANEOUS. 


WISDOM. 

How  happy  is  the  child  who  hears 
Instruction's  warning  voice ; 

And  who  celestial  wisdom  makes 
His  early,  only  choice. 

Wisdom  has  treasures  greater  far 
Than  east  or  west  unfold  ; 

And  her  rewards  more  precious  are 
Than  is  the  gain  of  gold. 

She  guides  the  young  with  innocence 
In  pleasure's  path  to  tread  ; 

A  crown  of  glory  she  bestows 
Upon  the  hoary  head. 

According  as  her  labors  rise, 

So  her  rewards  increase  ; 
Her  ways  are  ways  of  pleasantness, 

And  all  her  paths  are  peace. 


184  IMMORTAL   BEAUTY. 


THE    HOLY    CHILD. 

BY  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill 

How  sweet  the  lily  grows  ! 
How  sweet  the  breath,  beneath  the  hill, 

Of  Sharon's  dewy  rose  ! 

Lo,  such  the  child  whose  early  feet 

The  paths  of  peace  have  trod  ; 
Whose  secret  heart,  with  influence  sweet, 

Is  upward  drawn  to  God ! 

0  Thou,  who  giv'st  us  life  and  breath, 

We  seek  thy  grace  alone, 
In  childhood,  manhood,  age,  and  death, 

To  keep  us  still  thine  own  ! 

HEBER. 


IMMORTAL    BEAUTY. 

SWEET  day  !  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 

Bridal  of  earth  and  sky, 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night, 

For  thou,  alas  !  must  die. 

Sweet  rose  !  in  air  whose  odors  wave, 

And  color  charms  the  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 

And  thou,  alas  !  must  die. 


SUNDAY   EVENING.  185 

Sweet  Spring  !  of  days  and  roses  made, 

Whose  charms  for  beauty  vie, 
Thy  days  depart,  thy  roses  fade, 

Thou  too,  alas  !  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  holy  soul 

Hath  tints  that  never  fly ; 
While  flowers  decay,  and  seasons  roll, 

This  lives,  and  cannot  die. 

GEORGE  HERBERT. 


SUNDAY    EVENING. 

'T  WAS  night,  and  o'er  the  desert  moor 
The  wintry  storm-gusts  wildly  blew, 

And  so  we  closed  our  cottage  door 

And  round  our  cheerful  wood-fire  drew 

Each  joined  the  hymn  of  evening  praise, 

Then  told  a  tale  of  Bible  days. 

First  Charley,  in  his  little  chair, 
With  sober  face,  his  tale  began, 

And  told  us  of  the  faith  and  prayer 
Of  Daniel  in  the  lion's  den  ; 

And  how  the  lions  were  afraid 

To  kill  the  righteous  man  who  prayed. 

Then  Henry  spoke  of  Israel's  guide,  — 
The  cloud  by  day,  the  fire  by  night, 


186  SUNDAY  EVENING. 

And  said,  whatever  might  betide, 

To  trust  in  God  is  always  right ; 
For  he  is  still,  to  those  who  pray, 
A  fire  by  night,  a  cloud  by  day. 

And  little  Freddy  told  of  three 
Who  once  a  fiery  furnace  trod, 

Because  they  would  not  bow  the  knee 
In  worship  to  an  idol-god  ; 

And  how,  to  save  them  from  the  flame, 

The  Son  of  God  in  glory  came. 

Then  little  Susan  told  of  One 

Who  kindly  all  our  sorrows  bore  — 

Though  rich  in  heaven,  on  earth  became 
For  us  so  very,  very  poor, 

That,  though  the  foxes  had  a  bed, 

He-  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head. 

The  tale  was  told,  —  a  crystal  tear 
Rose  brightly  to  each  sparkling  eye, 

And  then  in  accents  soft  and  clear 
Our  evening  hymn  again  rolled  high  ; 

Each  little  girl,  each  little  boy 

Joined  in  the  strains  of  solemn  joy. 

Then  grandpa  prayed,  —  that  dear  old  man, 
With  wrinkled  brow  and  hoary  hair, 

While  all  the  little  children  ran 
To  kneel  around  his  elbow-chair. 


THE   DELUGE.  187 

And  thus  the  Sunday  evening  passed, 
In  peace  and  pleasure  to  the  last. 

CHOICE  POEMS. 


THE    TEN    COMMANDMENTS. 

EXODUS,   CHAP.   XX. 

1.  THOU  shalt  have  no  more  gods  but  me  ; 

2.  Before  no  idol  bow  thy  knee. 

3.  Take  not  the  name  of  God  in  vain, 

4.  Nor  dare  the  Sabbath  day  profane. 

5.  Give  both  thy  parents  honor  due  : 

6.  Take  heed  that  thou  no  murder  do. 

7.  Abstain  from  words  and  deeds  unclean, 

8.  Nor  steal  though  thou  art  poor  and  mean, 

9.  Nor  make  a  wilful  lie,  nor  love  it. 

10.  What  is  thy  neighbor's  dare  not  covet. 


THE    DELUGE. 

A  RAIN  once  fell  upon  the  earth 

For  many  a  day  and  night, 
And  hid  the  flowers,  the  grass,  the  trees, 

The  birds  and  beasts,  from  sight. 

The  deep  waves  covered  all  the  land, 
And  mountain-tops  so  high  ; 


188  THE   DELUGE. 

And  nothing  could  be  seen  around, 
But  water,  and  the  sky. 

But  yet  there  was  one  moving  thing,  — 

A  still  and  lonely  ark,  — 
That  many  a  weary  day  and  night 

Sailed  o'er  that  ocean  dark. 

At  last,  a  little  dove  was  forth 
From  that  lone  vessel  sent ; 

But,  wearied,  to  the  ark  again, 
When  evening  came,  she  bent. 

Again  she  went,  but  soon  returned, 
And  in  her  beak  was  seen 

A  little  twig  —  an  olive-branch  — 
With  leaves  of  shining  green. 

The  waters  sank,  and  then  the  dove 
Flew  from  the  ark  once  more, 

And  came  not  back,  but  lived  among 
The  tree-tops,  as  before. 

Then  from  the  ark  they  all  came  forth, 
With  songs  of  joy  and  praise  ; 

And  once  again  the  green  earth  smiled 
Beneath  the  sun's  warm  rays. 


THE   STORY   OF   MOSES.  189 


THE    AKK    AND    DOVE. 

THERE  was  a  noble  ark, 
Sailing  o'er  waters  dark 

And  wild  around  ; 
Not  one  tall  tree  was  seen, 
Nor  flower,  nor  leaf  of  green  — 

All,  all  was  drowned. 

Then  a  soft  wing  was  spread, 
And  o'er  the  billows  dread 

A  meek  dove  flew  ; 
But  on  that  shoreless  tide, 
No  living  thing  she  spied 

To  cheer  her  view. 

So  to  the  ark  she  fled, 
With  weary,  drooping  head, 

To  seek  for  rest : 
Christ  is  thy  ark,  my  love, 
Thou  art  the  tender  dove  ; 

Fly  to  his  breast. 


MRS.    SlGOURNEY. 


THE    STORY    OF   MOSES. 

"  TELL  me  a  Sunday  story," 
A  dear  child  said  to  me  ; 


190  THE   STORY   OF  MOSES. 

And  I  bent  down  and  kissed  her 
And  placed  her  on  my  knee. 

"Once,  long  ago,  in  countries 

Far,  very  far  away, 
Where  the  cold  snow-storm  never  comes, 

And  all  is  bright  and  gay, 

"  There  lived  a  king,  so  cruel, 
He  gave  this  stern  command, 

That  all  the  little  children 

Must  die,  throughout  the  land. 

"  But  still  there  was  one  mother 

Who  kept  her  baby  dear, 
And  quickly  hushed  its  crying, 

In  silence  and  in  fear  ; 

"  But  when  she  could  no  longer 

Her  precious  baby  hide, 
She  did  not  like  to  throw  him 

Upon  the  rushing  tide  ; 

"  And  so  a  little  basket 
She  made,  of  rushes  stout, 

And  plastered  it  with  clay  and  pitch 
To  keep  the  water  out. 

"  Then  in  this  basket-cradle 
She  put  the  little  child  ; 


DAVID  IN  THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM.       191 

And  quietly  he  floated  down 
Among  the  rushes  wild. 

"  Just  then  the  king's  own  daughter 

Came  to  the  water's  edge, 
And  saw  the  basket  floating 

Among  the  grass  and  sedge. 

"  She  drew  it  from  the  water, 

And  called  the  babe  her  own, 
And  kept  him  till  to  be  a  man 

That  little  boy  had  grown. 

"  And  when  you  read  the  Bible,  — 

Which  you  will  learn  to  do,  — 
You  '11  see  how  great  and  good  he  was, 

And  how  God  loved  him,  too." 


DAVID   IN    THE    CAVE    OF    ADULLAM. 

DAVID  and  his  three  captains  bold 

Kept  ambush  once  within  a  hold. 

It  was  Adullam's  cave, 

Nigh  which  no  water  they  could  have, 

Nor  spring,  nor  running  brook  was  near 

To  quench  the  thirst  that  parched  them  there. 

Then  David,  king  of  Israel, 

Straight  bethought  him  of  a  well, 


192       DAYID  IN  THE  CAVE  OF  A  DULL  AM. 

Which  stood  beside  the  city  gate, 

At  Bethle'm  ;  where,  before  his  state 

Of  kingly  dignity,  he  had 

Oft  drunk  his  fill,  a  shepherd  lad  ; 

But  now  his  fierce  Philistine  foe 

Encamped  before  it  he  does  know. 

Yet  ne'er  the  less,  with  heat  opprest, 

Those  three  bold  captains  he  addrest  ; 

And  wished  that  one  to  him  would  bring 

Some  water  from  his  native  spring. 

His  valiant  captains  instantly 

To  execute  his  will  did  fly. 

The  mighty  three  the  ranks  broke  through 

Of  arme'd  foes,  and  water  drew 

For  David,  their  beloved  king, 

At  his  own  sweet,  native  spring. 

Back  through  their  arme'd  foes  they  haste, 

With  the  hard-earned  treasure  graced. 

But  when  the  good  king  David  found 

What  they  had  done,  he  on  the  ground 

The  water  poured.     "  Because,"  said  he, 

u  That  it  was  at  the  jeopardy 

Of  your  three  lives  this  thing  ye  did, 

That  I  should  drink  it,  God  forbid." 

CHARLES  LAMB. 


HERODIAS'S   DAUGHTER.  193 


HERODIAS'S    DAUGHTER. 

ONCE  on  a  charger  there  was  laid, 
And  brought  before  a  royal  maid, 
As  price  of  attitude  and  grace, 
A  guiltless  head,  a  holy  face. 

It  was  on  Herod's  natal  day, 
Who  o'er  Judaea's  land  held  sway. 
He  married  his  own  brother's  wife, 
Wicked  Herodias.     She  the  life 
Of  John  the  Baptist  long  had  sought, 
Because  he  openly  had  taught 
That  she  a  life  unlawful  led, 
Having  her  husband's  brother  wed. 

This  was  he,  that  saintly  John, 
Who  in  the  wilderness  alone 
Abiding,  did  for  clothing  wear 
A  garment  made  of  camel's-hair  ; 
Honey  and  locusts  were  his  food, 
And  he  was  most  severely  good. 
He  preached  penitence  and  tears, 
And  waking  first  the  sinner's  fears, 
Prepared  a  path,  made  smooth  a  way, 
For  his  diviner  Master's  day. 

Herod  kept  in  princely  state 

His  birthday.     On  his  throne  he  sate, 


194  HERODIAS'S    DAUGHTER. 

After  the  feast,  beholding  her 

Who  danced  with  grace  peculiar  ; 

Fair  Salome*,  who  did  excel 

All  in  that  land  for  dancing  well. 

The  feastful  monarch's  heart  was  fired, 

And  whatsoe'er  thing  she  desired, 

Though  half  his  kingdom  it  should  be, 

He  in  his  pleasure  swore  that  he 

Would  give  the  graceful  Salome*. 

The  damsel  was  Herodias'  daughter. 

She  to  the  queen  hastes,  and  besought  her 

To  teach  her  what  great  gift  to  name. 

Instructed  by  Herodias,  came 

The  damsel  back  ;  to  Herod  said, 

"  Give  me  John  the  Baptist's  head  ; 

And  in  a  charger  let  it  be 

Hither  straightway  brought  to  me." 

Herod  her  suit  would  fain  deny, 

But  for  his  oath's  sake  must  comply. 

When  painters  would  by  art  express 

Beauty  in  unloveliness, 

They,  Herodias'  daughter,  thee 

The  fittest  subject  take  to  be. 

They  give  thy  form  and  features  grace ; 

But  ever  in  thy  beauteous  face 

They  show  a  steadfast,  cruel  gaze, 

An  eye  unpitying  ;  and  amaze 

In  all  beholders  deep  they  mark, 

That  thou  betrayest  not  one  spark 


THE   SPARTAN   BOY.  195 

Of  feeling  for  the  ruthless  deed, 
That  did  thy  praiseful  dance  succeed. 
For  on  the  head  they  make  you  look, 
As  if  a  sullen  joy  you  took 
A  cruel  triumph,  wicked  pride, 
That  for  your  sport  a  saint  had  died. 

CHARLES  LAMB. 


THE    SPARTAN    BOY. 

WHEN  I  the  memory  repeat 

Of  the  heroic  actions  great. 

Which,  in  contempt  of  pain  and  death, 

Were  done  by  men  who  drew  their  breath 

In  ages  past,  I  find  no  deed 

That  can  in  fortitude  exceed 

The  noble  boy,  in  Sparta  bred, 

Who  in  the  temple  ministered. 

By  the  sacrifice  he  stands, 

The  lighted  incense  in  his  hands  ; 

Through  the  smoking  censer's  lid 

Dropped  a  burning  coal,  which  slid 

Into  his  sleeve,  and  passed  in 

Between  the  folds,  e'en  to  the  skin. 

Dire  was  the  pain  which  then  he  proved  ; 

But  not  for  this  his  sleeve  he  moved, 

Or  would  the  scorching  ember  shake 

Out  from  the  folds,  lest  it  should  make 

Any  confusion,  or  excite 

Disturbance  at  the  sacred  rite  ; 


196  ABOU-BEN-ADHEM. 

But  close  he  kept  the  burning  coal, 
Till  it  eat  itself  a  hole 
In  his  flesh.     The  standers  by 
Saw  no  sign  and  heard  no  cry. 
All  this  he  did  in  noble  scorn, 
And  for  he  was  a  Spartan  born. 

In  this  story  thou  mayest  see 
That  may  useful  prove  to  thee. 
By  this  example  thou  wilt  find, 
That,  to  the  ingenuous  mind, 
Shame  can  greater  anguish  bring 
Than  the  body's  suffering  ; 
That  pain  is  not  the  worst  of  ills,  — 
Not  when  it  the  body  kills  ; 
That  in  fair  Religion's  cause, 
For  thy  country,  or  the  laws, 
When  occasion  dire  shall  offer, 
'T  is  reproachful  not  to  suffer. 

MARY  LAMB. 


ABOU-BEN-ADHEM. 

ABOU-BEN-ADHEM  —  may  his  tribe  increase  !  — 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  of  his  room, 
Making  it  rich  and  like  a  lily's  bloom, 
An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold. 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben-Adhem  bold  ; 


THE    HEART   A   BELL.  197 

And  to  the  Presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
"  What  writest  thou  ?  "     The  vision  raised  his  head, 
And,  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 
Answered,  "  The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord." 
"  And  is  mine  one  ?  "  said  Abou.     u  Nay,  not  so," 
Replied  the  angel.     Abou  spake  more  low, 
But  cheerily  still ;  and  said,  "  I  pray  thee,  then, 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 
The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.     The  next  night 
He  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening  light, 
And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blest ; 
And,  lo  !  Ben-Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest ! 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


THE    HEART    A   BELL. 

YOUR  heart  is  beating  day  by  day : 
If  it  could  speak,  what  would  it  say  ? 
The  hours  of  night  its  pulses  tell ;  — 
Have  you,  my  child,  considered  well 
What  means  this  restless  little  heart, 
That  doth  so  well  perform  its  part  ? 

It  is  a  little  bell,  whose  tone 

Is  heard  by  you  and  God  alone. 

At  your  soul's  door  it  hangs  ;  and  there 

His  Spirit  stays  with  loving  care, 

And  rings  the  bell,  and  deigns  to  wait 

To  see  if  closed  remains  the  gate. 


198  PROFANITY. 

He  rings  and  waits.     0  then  begin 

At  once  your  prayer,  "  Lord,  enter  in  !  " 

So  when  its  time  on  earth  is  past, 
Your  heart  will  beat  no  more  at  last ; 
And  when  its  latest  pulse  is  o'er, 
'T  will  go  and  knock  at  Heaven's  door ; 
And  stand  without,  and  patient  wait, 
To  see  if  Christ  will  ope  the  gate, 
And  say  :  "  Here  endless  joys  begin, 
Here,  faithful  servant,  enter  in  ! 
I  was  on  earth  thy  cherished  guest, 
And  now  in  Heaven  I  give  thee  rest. 
Receive  at  length  thy  due  reward  ; 
Enjoy  the  blessings  of  thy  Lord." 

SONGS  FROM  THE  GERMAN. 


PROFANITY. 

TAKE  not  God's  name  in  vain ; 

Speak  not  that  holy  name,  — 
Not  with  a  laughing  lip, 

Not  in  thy  playful  game  ; 
For  the  great  God  of  all 

Heareth  each  word  we  say  : 
He  will  remember  it, 

In  the  great  judgment-day. 


CONSCIENCE.  199 

Hush  !  for  his  hosts,  unseen, 

Are  watching  over  thee  ; 
His  angels  spread  their  wings, 

Thy  shelter  kind  to  be. 
Wilt  thou,  with  words  profane, 

Rash  and  undutiful, 
Scatter  thine  angel-guards, 

Glorious  and  beautiful  ? 

Honor  God's  holy  name  : 

Speak  it  with  thought  and  care  ; 
Sing  it  in  holy  hymns  ; 

Breathe  it  in  earnest  prayer. 
But  not  with  sudden  cry, 

In  thy  light  joy  or  pain  : 
God  will  hold  guilty  all 

Who  take  his  name  in  vain  ! 

SUUDAY-SCHOOL   HYMNS. 


CONSCIENCE. 

WHEN  a  foolish  thought  within 
Tries  to  take  us  in  a  snare, 

Conscience  tells  us,  "  It  is  sin," 
And  entreats  us  to  beware. 

If  in  something  we  transgress, 
And  are  tempted  to  deny, 


200  CONSCIENCE. 

Conscience  says,  "  Your  fault  confess  ; 
Do  not  dare  to  tell  a  lie." 

In  the  morning  when  we  rise, 
And  would  fain  omit  to  pray, 

"  Child,  consider,"  Conscience  cries  ; 
"  Should  not  God  be  sought  to-day  ?  " 

When,  within  His  holy  walls, 

Far  abroad  our  thoughts  we  send, 

Conscience  often  loudly  calls, 
And  entreats  us  to  attend. 

When  our  angry  passions  rise, 

Tempting  to  revenge  an  ill ; 
"  Now  subdue  it,"  Conscience  cries  ; 

"  Do  command  your  temper  still." 

Thus,  without  our  will  or  choice, 

This  good  monitor  within, 
With  a  secret  warning  voice, 

Tells  us  to  beware  of  sin. 

But  if  we  should  disregard 

While  this  friendly  voice  would  call, 

Conscience  soon  will  grow  so  hard 
That  it  will  not  speak  at  all. 

HYMNS  FOR  INFANT  MINDS. 


THE   UNSEEN.  201 


THE    UNSEEN. 

THE  wind  blows  down  the  largest  tree, 

And  yet  the  wind  I  cannot  see. 

Playmates  far  off,  that  have  been  kind, 

My  thought  can  bring  before  my  mind  ; 

The  past  by  it  is  present  brought, 

And  yet  I  cannot  see  my  thought. 

The  charming  rose  perfumes  the  air, 

Yet  I  can  see  no  perfumes  there. 

Blithe  robin's  notes  —  how  sweet,  how  clear, 

From  his  small  bill  they  reach  my  ear  ! 

And  whilst  upon  the  air  they  float, 

I  hear,  yet  cannot  see  a  note. 

When  I  would  do  what  is  forbid, 

By  something  in  my  heart  I  'm  chid  ; 

When  good  I  think,  then  quick  and  pat 

The  something  says,  "  My  child,  do  that." 

When  I  too  near  the  stream  would  go, 

So  pleased  to  see  the  waters  flow, 

That  something  says,  without  a  sound, 

"  Take  care,  dear  child  !  you  may  be  drowned." 

And  for  the  poor  whene'er  I  grieve, 

That  something  says,  "  A  penny  give." 

Thus  spirits  good  and  ill  there  be, 

Although  invisible  to  me  : 

Whate'er  I  do,  they  see  me  still. 

Then,  0  good  Spirits !  guide  my  will. 

ADELAIDE  TAYLOK. 
9* 


202  IMMORTALITY. 


ETERNITY. 

How  long  sometimes  a  day  appears  ! 

And  weeks,  how  long  are  they  ! 
Months  move  as  slow  as  if  the  years 

Would  never  pass  away. 

But  even  years  are  fleeting  by, 

And  soon  must  all  be  gone  ; 
For  day  by  day,  as  minutes  fly, 

Eternity  comes  on. 

Days,  months,  and  years  must  have  an  end  : 

Eternity  has  none  ! 
'T  will  always  have  as  long  to  spend 

As  when  it  first  begun. 

Great  God  !  although  we  cannot  tell 

How  such  a  thing  can  be, 
We  humbly  pray  that  we  may  dwell 

That  long,  long  time  with  thee. 

JANE  TAYLOR. 


IMMORTALITY. 

YON  butterfly,  whose  airy  form 
Flits  o'er  the  garden-wall, 


IMMORTALITY.  203 

Was  once  a  little  crawling  worm, 
And  could  not  fly  at  all. 

The  little  worm  was  then  enclosed 

Within  a  shell-like  case, 
And  there  it  quietly  reposed 

Until  its  change  took  place. 

And  now  on  red  and  purple  wings 

It  roves,  as  free  as  air, 
Visiting  all  the  lovely  things 

That  make  the  earth  so  fair. 

And  we  —  if  humbly  we  behave, 

And  do  the  will  of  God, 
And  strive  to  follow,  to  our  grave, 

The  paths  the  saints  have  trod  — 

Shall  find  a  change  more  glorious  far 

Than  that  which  came  to  light, 
When,  bursting  through  its  prison  bar, 

The  butterfly  took  flight. 

Through  Christ,  who  reigns  above  the  skies, 

To  us  it  will  be  given 
Aloft  on  angels'  wings  to  rise, 

And  taste  the  joys  of  heaven. 

SONGS  FROM  THE  GERMAN. 


204  THE   STARS. 


THE    STAKS. 

"  STARS,  that  on  your  wondrous  way 
Travel  through  the  evening  sky, 

Is  there  nothing  you  can  say 
To  a  child  so  small  as  I  ? 

Tell  me  —  for  I  long  to  know  — 

Who  has  made  you  sparkle  so  ?  " 

"  Child,  as  truly  as  we  roll 

Through  the  dark  and  distant  sky, 
You  have  an  immortal  soul, 

Born  to  live  when  we  shall  die  : 
Suns  and  planets  pass  away, 
Spirits  never  can  decay. 

"  When,  some  thousand  years  at  most, 
All  their  little  time  have  spent, 

One  by  one  our  sparkling  host 
Shall  forsake  the  firmament, 

We  shall  from  our  glory  fall ; 

You  must  live  beyond  us  all. 

"  Yes,  and  God,  who  bade  us  roll, 
God,  who  hung  us  in  the  sky, 

Stoops  to  watch  an  infant's  soul, 
With  a  condescending  eye, 

And  esteems  it  dearer  far, 

More  in  value  than  a  star ! 


A    CHRISTMAS   HYMN.  205 

"  0  then,  while  your  breath  is  given, 

Pour  it  out  in  fervent  prayer, 
And  beseech  the  God  of  Heave-n 

To  receive  your  spirit  there  ; 
As  a  living  star  to  blaze 
Ever  to  your  Saviour's  praise." 

HYMNS  FOR  INFANT  MINDS. 


A    CHRISTMAS    HYMN. 

IT  was  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

Seven  hundred  years  and  fifty-three 
Had  Rome  been  growing  up  to  might, 

And  now  was  queen  of  land  and  sea  ! 
No  sound  was  heard  of  clashing  wars, 

Peace  brooded  o'er  the  hushed  domain  ; 
Apollo,  Pallas,  Jove,  and  Mars 

Held  undisturbed  their  ancient  reign,  — 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago  ! 

'T  was  in  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

The  senator  of  haughty  Rome 
Impatient  urged  his  chariot's  flight, 

From  lordly  revel  rolling  home. 
Triumphal  arches,  gleaming,  swell 

His  breast  with  thoughts  of  boundless  sway 


206  A    CHRISTMAS    HYMN. 

What  recked  the  Roman  what  befell 
A  paltry  province  far  away,  — 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago  ? 

"Within  that  province  far  away 

Went  plodding  home  a  weary  boor  ; 
A  streak  of  light  before  him  lay, 

Fallen  through  a  half-shut  stable  door 
Across  his  path.     He  paused,  for  naught 

Told  what  was  going  on  within  : 
How  keen  the  stars,  his  only  thought ; 

The  air  how  calm,  and  cold,  and  thin, — 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago  ! 

0  strange  indifference  !  —  low  and  high 

Drowsed  over  common  joys  and  cares  ; 
The  earth  was  still,  but  knew  not  why : 

The  world  was  listening  —  unawares  ! 
How  calm  a  moment  may  precede 

One  that  shall  thrill  the  world  forever ! 
To  that  still  moment  none  would  heed, 

Man's  doom  was  linked,  no  more  to  sever, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago  ! 

It  is  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

A  thousand  bells  ring  out,  and  throw 
Their  joyous  peals  abroad,  and  smite 

The  darkness,  charmed  and  holy  now  ! 


FOREST   SCENE   IN   THE   DAYS   OF   WICKLIFF.         207 

The  night  that  erst  no  shame  had  worn, 

To  it  a  happy  name  is  given ; 
For  in  that  stable  lay,  new-born, 

The  peaceful  Prince  of  earth  and  heaven,  — 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago  ! 

ALFRED  DORNETT 


FOREST  SCENE  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  WICKLIFF. 

/    A  LITTLE  child,  she  read  a  book, 

Beside  an  open  door  ; 
And  as  she  read  page  after  page, 
She  wondered  more  and  more. 

Her  little  finger,  carefully, 

Went  pointing  out  the  place  ; 
Her  golden  locks  hung  drooping  down, 

And  shadowed  half  her  face. 

The  open  book  lay  on  her  knee, 

Her  eyes  on  it  were  bent ; 
And  as  she  read  page  after  page, 

Her  color  came  and  went. 

She  sat  upon  a  mossy  stone, 

An  open  door  beside  ; 
And  round,  for  miles  on  every  side, 

Stretched  out  a  forest  wide. 


208          FOREST   SCENE   IN   THE   DAYS   OF  WICKLIFF. 

The  summer  sun  shone  on  the  trees,  — 

The  deer  lay  in  the  shade  ; 
And  overhead  the  singing-birds 

Their  pleasant  clamor  made. 

There  was  no  garden  round  the  house, 
.     And  it  was  low  and  small ; 
The  forest  sward  grew  to  the  door, 
The  lichens  on  the  wall. 

There  was  no  garden  round  about, 
Yet  flowers  were  growing  free  ; 

The  cowslip  and  the  daffodil 
Upon  the  forest  lea. 

The  butterfly  went  flitting  by  ; 

The  bees  were  in  the  flowers  ; 
But  the  little  child  sat  steadfastly, 

As  she  had  sat  for  hours. 

"  Why  sit  ye  here,  my  little  maid  ?  " 

An  aged  pilgrim  spake  ; 
The  child  looked  upward  from  her  book 

Like  one  but  just  awake. 

Back  fell  her  locks  of  golden  hair, 

And  solemn  was  her  look  ; 
And  thus  she  answered,  witlessly, 

"  0  sir,  I  read  this  book  !  " 


FOREST   SCENE   IN   THE    DAYS   OF  WICKLIFF.          209 

"  And  what  is  there  within  that  book 

To  win  a  child  like  thee  ? 
Up  !  join  thy  mates,  the  singing-birds, 

And  frolic  with  the  bee." 

"  Nay,  sir,  I  cannot  leave  the  book, 

I  love  it  more  than  play  ; 
I  've  read  all  legends,  but  this  one 

Ne'er  saw  I  till  to-day. 

"  And  there  is  something  in  this  book 

That  makes  all  care  begone  ; 
And  yet  I  weep,  I  know  not  why, 

As  I  go  reading  on." 

"  Who  art  thou,  child,  that  thou  shouldst  read 

A  book  with  mickle  heed  ? 
Books  are  for  clerks  ;  —  the  king  himself 

Hath  much  ado  —  to  read." 

"  My  father  is  a  forester, 

A  bowman  keen  and  good  ; 
He  keeps  the  deer  within  their  bounds, 

And  worketh  in  the  wood. 

"  My  mother  died  at  Candlemas  ;  — 

The  flowers  are  all  in  blow 
Upon  her  grave,  at  Allenby, 

Down  in  the  vale  below." 


210          FOREST   SCENE   IN   THE   DAYS   OP   WICKLIFF. 

This  said,  unto  her  book  she  turned, 

As  steadfast  as  before  ;  — 
"  Nay,"  said  the  pilgrim,  "  nay,  not  yet, 

And  you  must  tell  me  more. 

•'  Who  was  it  taught  you  thus  to  read  ?  " 
"  Ah,  sir  !  it  was  my  mother  ; 

She  taught  me  both  to  read  and  spell, 
And  so  she  taught  my  brother. 

"  My  brother  dwelt  at  Allenby, 
With  the  good  monk  alway  ; 

And  this  new  book  he  brought  to  me, 
But  only  for  one  day. 

"  0,  sir,  it  is  a  wondrous  book, 

Better  than  Charlemagne  ; 
And  be  you  pleased  to  leave  me  now, 

I  '11  read  in  it  again." 

"  Nay,  read  to  me,"  the  pilgrim  said  ; 

And  the  little,  child  went  on 
To  read  of  Christ,  as  is  set  forth 

In  the  Gospel  of  St.  John. 

On,  on  she  read,  and  gentle  tears 
Adown  her  cheeks  did  glide  ; 

The  pilgrim  sat  with  bended  head, 
And  he  wept  by  her  side. 


FOREST   SCENE   IN   THE   DAYS   OF   WICKLIFF.          211 

"  I  've  heard,"  said  he,  "  the  Archbishop,  — 

I've  heard  the  Pope,  at  Rome, — 
But  never  did  their  spoken  words 

Thus  to  my  spirit  come. 

"  The  book,  it  is  a  blessed  book, 

Its  name,  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
Said  she,  "  They  are  the  words  of  Christ 

That  I  have  read  to  thee, 
Now  done  into  the  English  tongue, 

For  folks  unlearned  as  me." 

"  Give  me  the  book,  and  let  me  read, — 

My  soul  is  strangely  stirred  ; 
They  are  such  words  of  love  and  truth 

As  I  ne'er  before  have  heard." 

The  little  girl  gave  up  the  book, 

And  the  pilgrim,  old  and  brown, 
With  reverend  lips  did  kiss  the  page, 

Then  on  the  stone  sat  down. 

And  aye  he  read  page  after  page, 

Page  after  page  he  turned  ; 
And  as  he  read  their  blessed  words, 

His  heart  within  him  burned. 

Still,  still  the  book  the  old  man  read, 

As  he  would  ne'er  have  done  ; 
From  the  hour  of  noon  he  read  the  book 

Until  the  set  of  sun. 


212          FOREST   SCENE   IN   THE   DAYS   OF   WICKLIFF. 

The  little  child,  she  brought  him  out 

A  cake  of  wheaten  bread  ; 
And  it  lay  unbroken  at  eventide, 

Nor  did  he  raise  his  head. 

Then  came  .the  sturdy  forester 
Along  the  homeward  track, 

Whistling  aloud  a  hunting  tune, 
With  a  slain  deer  on  his  back. 

Loud  greeting  gave  the  forester 

Unto  the  pilgrim  poor,  — 
The  old  man  rose  with  thoughtful  brow, 

And  entered  at  the  door. 

They  two,  they  sat  them  down  to  meat, 
And  the  pilgrim  'gan  to  tell 

How  he  had  eaten  on  Olivet, 
And  drank  at  Jacob's  well. 

And  then  he  told  him  he  had  knelt 
Where'er  our  Lord  had  prayed, 

How  he  had  in  the  garden  been, 
And  the  tomb  where  He  was  laid. 

And  then  he  turned  unto  the  book, 

And  read  in  English  plain, 
How  Christ  had  died  on  Calvary, 

How  he  had  risen  again. 


FOREST   SCENE   IN    THE    DAYS   OF   WICKLIFF.  213 

As  water  to  the  parch  e*d  soil, 

As  to  the  hungry,  bread, 
So  fell  upon  the  woodman's  soul 

Each  word  the  pilgrim  read. 

Thus,  through  the  midnight  did  they  read, 

Until  the  dawn  of  day  ; 
And  then  came  in  the  woodman's  son, 

To  fetch  the  book  away. 

All  quick  and  troubled  was  his  speech,  — 

His  face  was  pale  with  dread  ; 
For  he  said  the  king  had  made  a  law 

That  the  book  should  not  be  read ; 
For  it  was  such  a  fearful  heresy, 

The  holy  Abbot  said. 

MARY  HOWITT. 


PART    V. 

OLDER    CHILDREN, 


THE    SPRING-TIME    OF    LIFE. 

FROM    "  WILLIE   WINKIE." 

THK  summer  comes  with  rosy  wreaths, 

To  dance  amon<r  the  fr;i<rrant  flowers, 
While  friendly  iiutnmn  plenty  breathes, 

And  hlessin^s  in  ;ilumdant  showers. 
E'en  winter  witli  its  frost  and  snow 

Urines  much  the  mind  to  calm  and  cheer, 
Hut,  tliere  's  ;i,  season  worth  them  all 

And  that 's  tin;  spring-time  of  the  year. 
10 


218  SPRING-TIME   OF   LIFE. 

In  spring  the  farmer  ploughs  the  field 

That  yet  will  wave  with  yellow  corn, 
In  spring  the  birdie  builds  its  nest 

In  foggy  bank  or  budding  thorn  ; 
The  bank  and  brae,  the  hill  and  dell, 

A  song  of  hope  are  heard  to  sing, 
And  summer,  autumn,  winter  tell 

With  joy  and  grief  the  work  of  spring. 

Now  youth  's  the  spring-time  of  your  life, 

When  seed  is  sown  with  care  and  toil, 
And  hopes  are  high  and  fears  are  rife, 

Lest  weeds  should  rise  the  grain  to  spoil. 
I've  sown  the  seed,  my  bairnies  dear, 

By  precept  and  example  too, 
And  may  the  Hand  that  guides  us  here 

Preserve  us  all  the  journey  through. 

But  soon  the  time  will  come  when  you 

May  lose  a  mother's  tender  care, 
A  world  with  sorrows  not  a  few, 

With  all  its  stormy  strife  to  share  : 
Then  as  you  pass  through  life  along 

Let  fortune  kind  or  frowning  prove, 
Ne'er  let  the  Tempter  lead  you  wrong, 

But  still  be  guided  by  His  love. 

GEORGE  DONALD. 


THE   PURPOSE   OF  LIFE.  219 


THE    PURPOSE    OF    LIFE. 

HAST  thou,  midst  life's  empty  noises, 

Heard  the  solemn  steps  of  Time, 
And  the  low,  mysterious  voices 

Of  another  clime  ? 

Early  hath  life's  mighty  question 
Thrilled  within  thy  heart  of  youth, 

With  a  deep  and  strong  beseeching,  — 
What,  and  where,  is  truth  ? 

Not  to  ease  and  aimless  quiet 

Doth  the  inward  answer  tend  ; 
But  to  works  of  love  and  duty, 

As  our  being's  end. 

Earnest  toil  and  strong  endeavor 

Of  a  spirit  which  within 
Wrestles  with  familiar  evil 

And  besetting  sin  ; 

And  without,  with  tireless  vigor, 
Steady  heart,  and  purpose  strong, 

In  the  power  of  Truth  assaileth 
Every  form  of  wrong. 

J.  G.  WHITTIER. 


220  THE   BUILDING   OP   THE   HOUSE. 


THE    BUILDING    OF    THE    HOUSE 

I  HAVE  a  wondrous  house  to  build, 

A  dwelling,  humble  yet  divine  ; 
A  lowly  cottage  to  be  filled 

With  all  the  jewels  of  the  mine. 
How  shall  I  build  it  strong  and  fair,  — 
This  noble  house,  this  lodging  rare, 

So  small  and  modest,  yet  so  great  ? 
How  shall  I  fill  its  chambers  bare 

With  use,  with  ornaments,  with  state  ? 

My  God  hath  given  the  stone  and  clay ; 

'T  is  I  must  fashion  them  aright ; 
'T  is  I  must  mould  them  day  by  day, 

And  make  my  labor  my  delight ; 
This  cot,  this  palace,  this  fair  home, 
This  pleasure-house,  this  holy  dome, 

Must  be  in  all  proportions  fit, 
That  heavenly  messengers  may  come 

To  lodge  with  him  who  tenants  it. 

No  fairy  bower  this  house  must  be, 
To  totter  at  each  gale  that  starts, 

But  of  substantial  masonry, 
Symmetrical  in  all  its  parts  : 

Fit  in  its  strength  to  stand  sublime 


THE   BUILDING   OF   THE   HOUSE.  221 

For  seventy  years  of  mortal  time, 

Defiant  of  the  storm  and  rain, 
And  well  attempered  to  the  clime 

In  every  cranny,  nook,  and  pane. 

I  '11  build  it  so,  that  if  the  blast 

Around  it  whistle  loud  and  long, 
The  tempest  when  its  rage  has  passed 

Shall  leave  its  rafters  doubly  strong. 
I  '11  build  it  so  that  travellers  by 
Shall  view  it  with  admiring  eye, 

For  its  commodiousness  and  grace  : 
Firm  on  the  ground,  —  straight  to  the  sky,  — 

A  meek,  but  goodly  dwelling-place. 

Thus  noble  in  its  outward  form, 

Within  I  '11  build  it  clean  and  white  ;  * 

Not  cheerless  cold,  but  happy  warm, 

And  ever  open  to  the  light. 
No  tortuous  passages  or  stair, 
No  chamber  foul,  or  dungeon  lair, 

No  gloomy  attic,  shall  there  be, 
But  wide  apartments,  ordered  fair, 

And  redolent  of  purity. 

With  three  compartments  furnished  well, 
The  house  shall  be  a  home  complete  ; 

Wherein,  should  circumstance  rebel, 
The  humble  tenant  may  retreat. 

The  first,  a  room  wherein  to  deal 


222  THE   BUILDING    OF   THE   HOUSE. 

With  men  for  human  nature's  weal, 
A  room  where  he  may  work  or  play, 

And  all  his  social  life  reveal 
In  its  pure  texture,  day  by  day. 

The  second  for  his  wisdom  sought, 

Where,  with  his  chosen  book  or  friend, 
He  may  employ  his  active  thought 

To  virtuous  or  exalted  end. 
A  chamber  lofty  and  serene, 
With  a  door-window  to  the  green, 

Smooth-shaven  sward,  and  arching  bowers, 
Where  love,  or  talk,  or  song  between 

May  gild  his  intellectual  hours. 

The  third  an  oratory  dim, 

But  beautiful,  where  he  may  raise, 
Unheard  of  men,  his  daily  hymn 

Of  love  and  gratitude  and  praise  ; 
Where  he  may  revel  in  the  light 
Of  things  unseen  and  infinite, 

And  learn  how  little  he  may  be, 
And  yet  how  awful  in  thy  sight, 

Ineffable  Eternity  ! 

Such  is  the  house  that  I  must  build  ; 

This  is  the  cottage,  this  the  dome, 
And  this  the  palace,  treasure  filled, 

For  an  immortal's  earthly  home. 
0  noble  work  of  toil  and  care  ! 


THE   SCULPTOR   BOY.  223 

0  task  most  difficult  and  rare  ! 

0  simple  but  most  arduous  plan  ! 
To  raise  a  dwelling-place  so  fair, 

The  sanctuary  of  a  Man. 

CHAS.  MACKAY. 


THE    SCULPTOR    BOY. 

CHISEL  in  hand  stood  a  sculptor  boy, 

With  his  marble  block  before  him  ; 
And  his  face  lit  up,  with  a  smile  of  joy, 

As  an  angel-dream  passed  o'er  him  : 
He  carved  it  then  on  the  yielding  stone, 

With  many  a  sharp  incision  ; 
With  Heaven's  own  light  the  sculpture  shone  : 

He  had  caught  that  angel-vision. 

Sculptors  of  life  are  we,  as  we  stand, 

With  our  souls,  uncarved,  before  us, 
Waiting  the  hour  when,  at  God's  command, 

Our  life-dream  shall  pass  o'er  us. 
If  we  carve  it  then,  on  the  yielding  stone, 

With  many  a  sharp  incision, 
Its  heavenly  beauty  shall  be  our  own, 

Our  lives,  that  angel-vision. 

BISHOP  DOANE. 


224  A   PSALM    OF   LIFE. 


A    PSALM    OF    LIFE. 

TELL  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !  Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal  : 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 
Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 


LABOR.  225 

Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present ! 
Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 

We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 

Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  ; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 
A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

LONGFELLOW. 


LABOR. 

PAUSE  not  to  dream  of  the  future  before  us  : 
Pause  not  to  weep  the  wild  cares  that  come  o'er  us  : 
Hark,  how  Creation's  deep,  musical  chorus 

Unintermitting,  goes  up  into  Heaven  !    . 
Never  the  ocean  wave  falters  in  flowing  : 
Never  the  little  seed  stops  in  its  growing  ; 
More  and  more  richly  the  Rose-heart  keeps  glowing, 

Till  from  its  nourishing  stem  it  is  riven. 

10*  o 


226  LABOR. 

"  Labor  is  worship  !  "  —  the  robin  is  singing  ; 
"  Labor  is  worship  !  "  —  the  wild  bee  is  ringing  : 
Listen  that  eloquent  whisper  unspringing 

Speaks  to  my  soul  from  out  nature's  great  heart, 
From  the  dark  cloud  flows  the  life-giving  shower  ; 
From  the  rough  sod  blows  the  soft-breathing  flower  ; 
From  the  small  insect,  the  rich  coral  bower  ; 

Only  man,  in  the  plan,  shrinks  from  his  part. 

Labor  is  life  !  —  'T  is  the  still  water  faileth  ; 

Idleness  ever  despaireth,  bewaileth  ; 

Keep  the  watch  wound,  for  the  dark  rust  assaileth  ! 

Flowers  droop  and  die  in  the  stillness  of  noon. 
Labor  is  glory  !  the  flying  cloud  lightens  ; 
Only  the  waving  wing  changes  and  brightens  ; 
Idle  hearts  only  the  dark  future  frightens  : 

Play  the  sweet  keys,  wouldst  thou  keep  them  in  tune  ! 

Labor  is  rest  from  the  sorrows  that  greet  us  ; 
Rest  from  all  petty  vexations  that  meet  us, 
Rest  from  sin-promptings  that  ever  entreat  us, 

Rest  from  world-sirens  that  lure  us  to  ill. 
Work  —  and  pure  slumbers  shall  wait  on  thy  pillow  ; 
Work  —  thou  shalt  ride  over  Care's  coming  billow  ; 
Lie  not  down  wearied  'neath  Woe's  weeping  willow  ! 

Work  with  a  stout  heart  and  resolute  will ! 

Droop  not  tho'  shame,  sin,  and  anguish  are  round  thee  ! 
Bravely  fling  off  the  cold  chain  that  hath  bound  thee  ! 
Look  to  yon  pure  Heaven  smiling  beyond  thee  ! 


TRUE  HAPPINESS.  227 

Rest  not  content  in  thy  darkness  —  a  clod  ! 
Work  —  for  some  good,  —  be  it  ever  so  slowly  ! 
Cherish  some  flower,  —  be  it  ever  so  lowly  ! 
Labor  !     All  labor  is  noble  and  holy  : 

Let  thy  great  deeds  be  thy  prayer  to  thy  God  ! 

MRS.  F.  S.  OSGOOD. 


TRUE    HAPPINESS. 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will, 

Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are, 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 

Untied  unto  the  world  by  care 

Of  public  fame  or  private  breath  ;  — 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed  ; 

Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat ; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 

Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great ;  — 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend, 

And  walks  with  man  from  day  to  day, 
As  with  a  brother  and  a  friend. 


228  FREEDOM. 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 

Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands, 

And,  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

SIR  H.  WOTTON. 


FREEDOM. 

Is  true  Freedom  but  to  break 
Fetters  for  our  own  dear  sake, 
And,  with  leathern  hearts,  forget 
That  we  owe  mankind  a  debt  ? 
No  !  true  freedom  is  to  share 
All  the  chains  our  brothers  wear, 
And,  with  heart  and  hand,  to  be 
Earnest  to  make  others  free  ! 

They  are  slaves  who  fear  to  speak 

For  the  fallen  and  the  weak  ; 

They  are  slaves  who  will  not  choose 

Hatred,  scoffing,  and  abuse, 

Rather  than  in  silence  shrink 

From  the  truth  they  needs  must  think  ; 

They  are  slaves  who  dare  not  be 

In  the  right  with  two  or  three. 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


THE   HERITAGE.  229 


THE    HERITAGE. 

THE  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands, 

And  piles  of  brick,  and  stone,  and  gold, 

And  he  inherits  soft  white  hands, 
And  tender  flesh  that  fears  the  cold, 
Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  cares  ; 

The  bank  may  break,  the  factory  burn, 

A  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares, 
And  soft  white  hands  could  hardly  earn 
A  living  that  would  serve  his  turn  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  wants, 
His  stomach  craves  for  dainty  fare  ; 

With  sated  heart,  he  hears  the  pants 
Of  toiling  hinds  with  brown  arms  bare, 
And  wearies  in  his  easy-chair  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 
Wishes  o'erjoyed  with  humble  things, 


230  THE    HERITAGE. 

A  rank  adjudged  by  toil-won  merit, 
Content  that  from  employment  springs, 
A  heart  that  in  his  labor  sings  ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 
A  patience  learned  of  being  poor. 

Courage,  if  sorrow  come,  to  bear  it, 
A  fellow-feeling  that  is  sure 
To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

0  rich  man's  son  !  there  is  a  toil, 
That  with  all  others  level  stands  ; 

Large  charity  doth  never  soil, 

But  only  whiten,  soft  white  hands,  — 
This  is  the  best  crop  from  thy  lands  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 

0  poor  man's  son  !  scorn  not  thy  state  ; 
There  is  worse  weariness  than  thine, 

In  merely  being  rich  and  great  ; 
Toil  only  gives  the  soul  to  shine, 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  benign ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 


PRIDE.  231 

Both,  heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod, 

Are  equal  in  the  earth  at  last ; 
Both,  children  of  the  same  dear  God, 

Prove  title  to  your  heirship  vast 

By  record  of  a  well-filled  past ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
Well  worth  a  life  to  hold  in  fee. 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


PRIDE. 

How  proud  we  are  !  how  fond  to  show 
Our  clothes,  and  call  them  rich  and  new  ; 
When  the  poor  sheep  and  silk-worm  wore 
That  very  clothing  long  before. 

The  tulip  and  the  butterfly 

Appear  in  gayer  coats  than  I ; 

Let  me  be  dressed  fine  as  I  will, 

Flies,  worms,  and  flowers  exceed  me  still. 

But  let  me  seek  and  strive  to  find 
Inward  adorning  of  the  mind  ; 
Knowledge  and  virtue,  truth  and  grace, 
These  are  the  robes  of  richest  dress. 

This  never  fades,  it  ne'er  grows  old, 
Nor  fears  the  rain,  nor  moth,  nor  mould  ; 
It  takes  no  spot,  but  still  refines  ; 
The  more  't  is  worn,  the  more  it  shines. 


232  THE  NOBLY   BORN. 

In  this  on  earth  would  I  appear, 
Then  go  to  heaven  and  wear  it  there  ; 
God  will  approve  it  in  his  sight 
'T  is  his  own  work,  and  his  delight. 


THE   NOBLY   BORN. 

WHO  counts  himself  as  nobly  born, 

Is  noble  in  despite  of  place, 
And  honors  are  but  bands  to  one 

Who  wears  them  not  with  nature's  grace. 

The  prince  may  sit  with  clown  or  churl, 
Nor  feel  his  state  disgraced  thereby  ; 

But  he  who  has  but  sm'all  esteem 
Husbands  that  little  carefully. 

Then,  be  thou  peasant,  be  thou  peer, 
Count  it  still  more  than  art  thine  own ; 

Stand  on  a  larger  heraldry 

Than  that  of  nation  or  of  zone. 

What  though  not  bid  to  knightly  halls  ? 

Those  halls  have  missed  a  courtly  guest ; 
That  mansion  is  not  privileged, 

Which  is  not  open  to  the  best. 


THE  PEBBLE  AND  THE  ACORN.          233 

Give  honor  due  when  custom  asks, 

Nor  wrangle  for  the  lesser  claim ; 
It  is  not  to  be  destitute, 

To  have  the  thing  without  the  name. 

Then,  dost  thou  come  of  noble  blood, 

Disgrace  not  thy  good  company ; 
If  lowly  born,  so  bear  thyself 

That  gentle  blood  may  come  of  thee. 

Strive  not  with  pain  to  scale  the  height 

Of  some  fair  garden's  petty  wall, 
But  scale  the  open  mountain-side, 

Whose  summit  rises  over  all. 

DISCIPLES'  HYMN-BOOK. 


THE  PEBBLE  AND  THE  ACORN. 


"  I  AM  a  Pebble,  and  yield  to  none  !  " 
Were  swelling  words  of  a  tiny  stone, 
"  Nor  time  nor  season  can  alter  me  ; 
I  am  abiding,  while  ages  flee. 
The  pelting  hail  and  the  drizzling  rain 
Have  tried  to  soften  me  long  in  vain  ; 
And  the  tender  dew  has  sought  to  melt, 
Or  touch  my  heart ;  but  it  was  not  felt. 
There  's  none  that  can  tell  about  my  birth, 
For  I  'm  as  old  as  the  big,  round  earth. 


234         THE  PEBBLE  AND  THE  ACORN. 

The  children  of  men  arise,  and  pass 

Out  of  the  world  like  blades  of  grass  ; 

And  many  a  foot  on  me  has  trod, 

That 's  gone  from  sight,  and  under  the  sod ! 

I  am  a  Pebble  !  but  who  art  thou, 

Rattling  along  from  the  restless  bough  ?  " 

The  Acorn  was  shocked  at  the  rude  salute, 

And  lay  for  a  moment  abashed  and  mute  ; 

She  never  before  had  been  so  near 

This  gravelly  ball,  the  mundane  sphere  ; 

And  she  felt  for  a  time  at  a  loss  to  know 

How  to  answer  a  thing  so  coarse  and  low. 

But  to  give  reproof  of  a  nobler  sort 

Than  the  angry  look,  or  the  keen  retort, 

At  length  she  said,  in  a  gentle  tone : 

"  Since  it  has  happened  that  I  am  thrown 

From  the  lighter  element,  where  I  grew, 

Down  to  another,  so  hard  and  new, 

And  beside  a  personage  so  august, 

Abased,  I  will  cover  my  head  with  dust, 

And  quickly  retire  from  the  sight  of  one 

Whom  time,  nor  season,  nor  storm,  nor  sun, 

Nor  the  gentle  dew,  nor  the  grinding  heel 

Has  ever  subdued,  or  made  to  feel !  " 

And  soon,  in  the  earth,  she  sunk  away 

From  the  comfortless  spot  where  the  Pebble  lay. 

But  it  was  not  long  ere  the  soil  was  broke 
By  the  peering  head  of  an  infant  oak  ! 


LITTLE   THINGS.  235 

And,  as  it  arose  and  its  branches  spread, 

The  Pebble  looked  up,  and  wondering  said, 

"  A  modest  Acorn  !  never  to  tell 

What  was  enclosed  in  its  simple  shell ; 

That  the  pride  of  the  forest  was  folded  up 

In  the  narrow  space  of  its  little  cup  ! 

And  meekly  to  sink  in  the  darksome  earth, 

Which  proves  that  nothing  could  hide  her  worth  ! 

And  oh !  how  many  will  tread  on  me, 

To  come  and  admire  the  beaiitiful  tree, 

Whose  head  is  towering  towards  the  sky, 

Above  such  a  worthless  thing  as  I ! 

Useless  and  vain,  a  cumbercr  here, 

I  have  been  idling  from  year  to  year. 

But  never,  from  this,  shall  a  vaunting  word 

From  the  humbled  Pebble  again  be  heard, 

Till  something  without  me  or  within 

Shall  show  the  purpose  for  which  I  've  been  ! " 

The  Pebble  its  vow  could  not  forget, 

And  it  lies  there  wrapt  in  silence  yet. 

H.  F.  GOULD. 


LITTLE    THINGS. 

A  SPIDER  is  a  little  thing, 
But  once  a  spider  saved  a  king  ; 
The  little  bees  are  wiser  far 
Than  buffalos  and  lions  are  ; 


236  LITTLE   THINGS. 

Little  men  may  do  much  harm  ; 

Little  girls  may  learn  to  charm  ; 

Little  boys  may  shame  their  sires, 

And  little  sparks  become  great  fires ; 

A  little  pen  may  write  a  word 

By  which  a  nation  shall  be  stirred  ; 

A  little  money,  wisely  spent, 

A  world  of  sorrow  may  prevent ; 

A  little  counsel,  rightly  given, 

May  lift  a  sinful  soul  to  heaven. 

Little  losses,  day  by  day, 

Would  waste  old  Rothschild's  wealth  away  ; 

A  little  needle  in  the  eye 

May  cause  an  elephant  to  die ; 

A  little  fault,  if  left  to  grow, 

An  emperor  may  overthrow  ; 

A  little  word,  but  spoke  in  jest, 

May  rob  your  neighbor  of  his  rest ; 

A  little  selfishness  and  pride 

The  kindest  household  may  divide  ; 

Little  vices  many  times 

Out-Herod  felonies  and  crimes ; 

And  little  virtues  in  the  sum 

Great  excellences  do  become. 

MELODIES  FOR  CHILDHOOD. 


EACH   CAN   DO    SOMETHING.  237 


THE    KING'S    EXAMPLE. 

ONCE  Sultan  Nushirvan  the  just,  hunting, 

Stopped  in  an  open  field  to  take  a  lunch. 

He  wanted  salt,  and  to  a  servant  said, 

"  Go,  get  some  at  the  nearest  house,  but  pay 

The  price  the  peasant  asks."     "  Great  king,"  exclaimed 

The  servant,  "  thou  art  lord  o'er  all  this  realm  ; 

Why  take  the  pains  to  buy  a  little  salt  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  little  thing,"  said  Nushirvan, 

"  And  so,  at  first,  was  all  the  evil  whose 

Most  monstrous  load  now  presses  so  the  world. 

Were  there  no  little  wrongs,  no  great  could  be. 

If  I  from  off  a  poor  man's  tree  should  pluck 

A  single  apple,  straight  my  slaves  would  rob 

The  whole  tree  to  its  roots  :  if  I  should  seize 

Five  eggs,  my  ministers  at  once  would  snatch 

A  hundred  hens.     Therefore  strict  justice  must 

I,  even  in  unimportant  acts,  observe. 

Bring  salt,  but  pay  the  peasant  what  he  asks." 

ALGER'S  ORIENTAL  POETRY. 


EACH    CAN    DO    SOMETHING. 

WHAT  if  the  little  rain  should  say, 

"  So  small  a  drop  as  I 
Can  ne'er  refresh  those  thirsty  fields ; 

I '11  tarry  in  the  sky." 


238  EVERY  LITTLE   HELPS. 

What  if  the  shining  beam  of  noon 

Should  in  its  fountain  stay, 
Because  its  single  light  alone 

Cannot  create  a  day. 

Does  not  each  rain-drop  help  to  form 

The  cool  refreshing  shower  ? 
And  every  ray  of  light  to  warm 

And  beautify  the  flower  ? 

Then  let  each  child  its  influence  give, 

0  Lord !  to  truth  and  thee  ; 
So  shall  its  power  by  all  be  felt, 

However  small  it  be. 

SOUTHERN  CHURCHMAN. 


EVERY    LITTLE    HELPS. 

SUPPOSE  a  little  twinkling  star, 

Away  in  yonder  sky, 
Should  say,  what  light  can  reach  so  far 

From  such  a  star  as  I  ? 
Not  many  rays  of  mine  so  far 

As  yonder  earth  can  fall,  — 
The  others  so  much  brighter  are, 

I  will  not  shine  at  all ! 


EVERY  LITTLE   HELPS.  239 

Suppose  a  bright  green  leaf,  that  grows 

Upon  the  rosebush  near, 
Should  say,  because  I  'm  not  a  rose, 

I  will  not  linger  here  ; 
Or  that  a  dew-drop,  fresh  and  bright, 

Upon  that  fragrant  flower, 
Should  say,  I  '11  vanish  out  of  sight, 

Because  I  'm  not  a  shower  ! 

Suppose  a  little  child  should  say, 

Because  I  'm  not  a  man, 
I  will  not  try,  in  word  or  play, 

To  do  what  good  I  can ! 
Dear  child,  each  star  some  light  can  give, 

Though  gleaming  faintly  there  ; 
Each  rose-leaf  helps  the  plant  to  live, 

Each  dew-drop  keeps  it  fair  ! 

And  our  good  Father  who  's  in  heaven, 

And  doth  all  creatures  view, 
To  every  little  child  has  given 

Some  needful  work  to  do : 
Kind  deeds  toward  those  with  whom  you  live, 

Kind  words  and  actions  right, 
Shall  'mid  the  world's  worst  darkness  give 

A  little  precious  light ! 

CHOICE  POEMS. 


240  LITTLE   DEEDS. 


LITTLE    DEEDS. 

NOT  mighty  deeds  make  up  the  sum 

Of  happiness  below, 
But  little  acts  of  kindliness, 

Which  any  child  may  show. 

A  merry  sound,  to  cheer  the  babe 
And  tell  a  friend  is  near,  — 

A  word  of  ready  sympathy, 
To  dry  the  childish  tear,  — 

A  glass  of  water  timely  brought,  — 

An  offered  easy-chair,  — 
A  turning  of  the  window-blind, 

That  all  may  feel  the  air,  — 

An  early  flower,  unasked  bestowed,  — 
A  light  and  cautious  tread,  — 

A  voice  to  gentlest  whisper  hushed, 
To  spare  the  aching  head, — 

0,  deeds  like  these,  though  little  things, 

Yet  purest  love  disclose, 
As  fragrant  perfume  on  the  air 

Reveals  the  hidden  rose. 

Our  Heavenly  Father  loves  to  see 
These  precious  fruits  of  love  ; 

And,  if  we  only  serve  him  here, 
We  '11  dwell  with  him  above. 


THE   MOUNTAIN   TORRENT.  241 


THE    MOUNTAIN    TORRENT. 

FAIR  streamlet  running 

Where  violets  grow 
Under  the  elm-trees, 

Murmuring  low  ; 
Rippling  gently 

Amid  the  grass  ; 
I  have  a  fancy, 

As  I  pass  ; 

I  have  a  fancy  as  I  see 
The  trailing  willows  kissing  thee  ; 
As  I  behold  the  daisies  pied, 
The  harebells  nodding  at  thy  side  ; 
The  sheep  that  feed  upon  thy  brink, 
The  birds  that  stoop  thy  wave  to  drink  ; 
Thy  blooms  that  tempt  the  bees  to  stray, 
And  all  the  life  that  tracks  thy  way. 

I  deem  thou  flowest 

Through  grassy  meads 
To  show  the  beauty 
Of  gentle  deeds  ; 
To  show  how  happy 

The  world  might  be, 
If  man,  observant, 

Copied  thee  ; 

To  show  how  small  a  stream  may  pour 
Verdure  and  beauty  on  either  shore  ; 

11  p 


242  WHO   IS   MY   NEIGHBOR? 

To  teach  what  humble  men  might  do, 

If  their  lives  were  pure,  and  their  hearts  were  true  ; 

And  what  a  wealth  they  might  dispense, 

In  modest,  calm  beneficence  ; 

Marking  their  course,  as  thou  dost  thine, 

By  wayside  flowers  of  love  divine. 

/"  CHARLES  MACKAY. 


WHO    IS    MY    NEIGHBOR? 

THY  neighbor  ?  It  is  he  whom  thou 
Hast  power  to  aid  and  bless, 

Whose  aching  heart  or  burning  brow 
Thy  soothing  hand  may  press. 

Thy  neighbor  ?  'T  is  the  fainting  poor, 
Whose  eye  with  want  is  dim, 

Whom  hunger  sends  from  door  to  door  ; 
Go  thou,  and  succor  him. 

Thy  neighbor  ?     'T  is  that  weary  man, 
Whose  years  are  at  their  brim, 

Bent  low  with  sickness,  cares,  and  pain  ; 
Go  thou  and  comfort  him. 

Thy  neighbor  ?     'T  is  the  heart  bereft 

Of  every  earthly  gem ; 
Widow  and  orphan,  helpless  left ;  — 

Go  thou  and  shelter  them. 


THE  LITTLE   MATCH-SELLERS.  243 

Thy  neighbor  ?     Yonder  toiling  slave, 

Fettered  in  thought  and  limb, 
Whose  hopes  are  all  beyond  the  grave  ;  — 

Go  thou  and  ransom  him. 

Whene'er  thou  meet'st  a  human  form 

Less  favored  than  thine  own, 
Remember  't  is  thy  neighbor  worm,  - 

Thy  mother,  or  thy  son. 

0,  pass  not,  pass  not  heedless  by  ; 

Perhaps  thou  canst  redeem 
The  breaking  heart  from  misery  ;  — 

Go,  share  thy  lot  with  him. 

PEABODY. 


THE    LITTLE    MATCH-SELLERS 

ARE  all  your  matches  sold,  Tom  ? 

Is  all  your  selling  done  ? 
Then  let  us  to  the  flowery  fields, 

To  warm  us  in  the  sun. 
To  warm  us  in  the  sweet,  sweet  sun,  — 

To  feel  his  heavenly  glow  ; 
For  his  kind  looks  are  the  only  looks 

Of  kindness  that  we  know. 

We  '11  call  the  sun  our  fisher,  Tom  ! 
We  '11  call  the  sun  our  -mother  ! 


244  FORGIVE  THY  BROTHER. 

We  '11  call  each  little  charming  beam 

A  sister  or  a  brother  ! 
He  thinks  no  shame  to  kiss  us, 

Although  we  ragged  go  ; 
For  his  kind  looks  are  the  only  looks 

Of  kindness  that  we  know. 

We  '11  tell  him  all  our  sorrows,  Tom  ! 

We  '11  tell  him  all  our  care, — 
We  '11  tell  him  where  we  sleep  at  night, 

We  '11  tell  him  how  we  fare  ; 
And  then  —  0  then  !  — to  cheer  us. 

How  sweetly  he  will  glow !  — 
For  his  kind  looks  are  the  only  looks 

Of  kindness  that  we  know. 

CHOICE  POEMS. 


FORGIVE    THY    BROTHER 

FORGIVE  thy  brother  who  has  erred, 
And  take  him  by  the  hand  ; 

And  as  you  speak  a  generous  word, 
Assist  his  feet  to  stand. 

Joy  '11  sparkle  in  his  eye  to  hear 
Thy  words  of  gentle  tone  ; 

Forgiveness  breathed  upon  his  ear, 
And  love  and  kindness  shown, 


245 


Will  make  him  rise  to  life  again, 

And  shun  the  path  he  trod, 
When,  in  the  round  of  Folly's  train, 

He  broke  from  Truth  and  God. 

Forgive  thy  brother  —  even  now 

A  smile  is  on  his  cheek  ; 
The  glow  of  heaven  has  tinged  his  brow,  — 

Speak,  and  forgive  him  —  speak ! 


THE    BEGGAR'S    REVENGE. 

THE  king's  proud  favorite  at  a  beggar  threw  a  stone : 
He  picked  it  up,  as  if  it  had  for  alms  been  thrown. 

He  bore  it  in  his  bosom  long  with  bitter  ache, 
And  sought  his  time  revenge  with  that  same  stone  to 
take. 

One  day  he  heard  a  street  mob's  hoarse  commingled  cry : 
The  favorite  comes !  —  but  draws  no  more  the  admiring 
eye. 

He  rides  an  ass,  from  all  his  haughty  state  disgraced  ; 
And  by  the  rabble's  mocking  gibes  his  way  is  traced. 

The  stone  from  out  his  bosom  swift  the  beggar  draws. 
And,  flinging  it  away,  exclaims,  "  A  fool  I  was  !  " 


246  SPEAK   GENTLY. 

'T  is  madness  to  attack,  when  in  his  power,  your  foe, 
And  meanness  then  to  strike  when  he  has  fallen  low. 

ALGER'S  ORIENTAL,  POETRY. 


SPEAK    GENTLY. 

SPEAK  gently  !  it  is  better  far 

To  rule  by  love  than  fear  ; 
Speak  gently  !  let  not  harsh  words  mar 

The  good  we  might  do  here. 

Speak  gently  to  the  aged  one  ; 

Grieve  not  thi  care-worn  heart ; 
The  sands  of  life  are  nearly  run  : 

Let  such  in  peace  depart. 

Speak  gently,  kindly,  to  the  poor, 
Let  no  harsh  tone  be  heard  ; 

They  have  enough  they  must  endure 
Without  an  unkind  word  ! 

Speak  gently  !     He  who  gave  his  life, 
To  bend  man's  stubborn  will, 

When  elements  were  in  fierce  strife, 
Said  to  them,  "  Peace,  be  still !  " 

Speak  gently !  'tis  a  little  thing, 
Dropped  in  the  heart's  deep  well, 

The  good,  the  joy,  which  it  may  bring. 
Eternity  shall  tell. 


NO.  247 


NO. 


THERE  's  a  word  very  short,  but  decided  and  plain, 

And  speaks  to  the  purpose  at  once  ; 
Not  a  child  but  its  meaning  can  quickly  explain, 

Yet  oft  'tis  too  hard  to  pronounce  : 
What  a  world  of  vexation  and  trouble  'twould  spare, 

What  pleasure  and  peace  't  would  bestow, 
If  we  turned,  when  temptation  would  lure  and  ensnare, 

And  firmly  repulsed  it  with  "  No  !  " 

When  the  idler  would  tempt  us,  with  trifles  and  play, 

To  waste  the  bright  moments  so  dear  ; 
When  the  scoffer  unholy  our  faith  would  gainsay, 

And  mock  at  the  word  we  revere  ; 
When  deception  and  falsehood  and  guile  would  invite, 

And  fleeting  enjoyments  bestow, 
Never  palter  with  truth  for  a  transient  delight, 

But  check  the  first  impulse  with  "  No !  " 

In  the  morning  of  life,  in  maturity's  day, 

Whatever  the  cares  that  engage, 
Be  the  precepts  of  virtue  our  guide  and  our  stay, 

Our  solace  from  youth  unto  age  ! 
Thus  the  heart  shall  ne'er  waver,  no  matter  how  tried, 

But  firmness  and  constancy  show, 
And  when  passion  or  folly  would  draw  us  aside, 

We  'd  spurn  the  seducer  with  "  No  !  " 

GEORGE  BENNETT. 


248  THE   FORSAKEN. 


THE    FORSAKEN. 

0  THOU  whose  brow,  serene  and  calm, 

From  earthly  stain  is  free, 
View  not  with  scorn  that  lost  one's  fate, 
—  She  once  was  pure  like  thee. 

Though  in  thy  lovely  form  and  face 

Health's  rosy  glow  we  see, 
Yet  shrink  not  from  that  faded  form 

—  She  once  was  fair  like  thee  ! 

Thou  in  thy  father's  home  may  dwell 

In  peace  and  purity  ; 
Yet  pity  her,  though  friendless  now, 

—  She  once  was  blest  like  thee. 

Perchance  the  smiles  of  love  are  thine, 

Its  joyful  ecstasy ; 
Then  weep  for  that  forsaken  one, 

—  She  once  was  loved  like  thee. 

And  still,  'mid  shame,  and  guilt,  and  woe. 

One  Being  loves  her  still ! 
Who  makes  thee  blest,  and  pours  on  her 

The  world's  extremest  ill. 

He  knows  the  secret  lure  that  led 
Her  youthful  steps  astray  ; 


249 


He  knows  that  thou,  in  all  thy  pride, 
Might  fall  from  him  away  ; 

Then,  with  the  love  of  Him  who  said, 

"  Depart,  and  sin  no  more," 
Shield  from  despair  that  wretched  one, 

And  bid  her  pangs  be  o'er. 

SACRED  OFFERING. 


THE    FAIRY'S    GIFT. 

0  DID  you  not  hear  in  your  nursery 

The  tale  that  gossips  tell, 
Of  two  young  girls  that  came  to  drink 

At  a  certain  fairy  well  ? 

The  words  of  the  younger  were  as  sweet 

As  the  smile  of  her  ruby  lip  ; 
But  the  tongue  of  the  eldest  seemed  to  move 

As  if  venom  were  on  its  tip. 

At  the  well  a  beggar  accosted  them, 

(A  sprite,  in  mean  disguise,) 
The  eldest  spake  with  a  scornful  brow, 

The  younger  with  tear-dimmed  eyes. 

Cried  the  fairy,  "  Whenever  you  speak,  sweet  girl, 
Pure  gems  from  your  lips  shall  fall ; 


250 


But  whenever  you  utter  a  word,  proud  maid, 
From  your  tongue  shall  a  serpent  crawl !  " 

And  have  you  not  met  with  these  sisters  oft, 
In  the  haunts  of  the  old  and  young  ? 

The  first  with  her  pure,  unsullied  lip, 
The  last  with  her  serpent  tongue  ? 

The  first  is  GOOD  NATURE.     Diamonds  bright 
O'er  the  darkest  theme  she  throws  ; 

The  last  is  SLANDER  —  leaving  the  blight 
Of  the  snake,  wherever  she  goes. 


DON'T    FRET. 

HAS  a  neighbor  injured  you  ? 

Don't  fret : 

You  will  yet  come  off  the  best ; 
He  's  the  most  to  answer  for, 
Never  mind  it,  let  it  rest. 

Don't  fret  : 

Has  a  wicked  lie  been  told  ? 

Don't  fret : 

It  will  run  itself  to  death, 
If  you  let  it  quite  alone, 
It  will  die  for  want  of  breath  ; 

Don't  fret. 


THANKFULNESS.  251 

Are  your  enemies  at  work  ? 

Don't  fret : 
They  can't  injure  you  a  whit  ; 

If  they  find  you  heed  them  not, 
They  will  soon  be  glad  to  quit ; 

Don't  fret. 

Is  adversity  your  lot  ? 

Don't  fret : 
Fortune's  wheel  keeps  turning  round, 

Every  spoke  will  reach  the  top, 
Which,  Eke  you,  is  going  down  ; 

Don't  fret. 


THANKFULNESS. 

SOME  murmur  when  their  sky  is  clear 

And  wholly  bright  to  view, 
If  one  small  speck  of  dark  appear 

In  their  great  heaven  of  blue ; 
And  some  with  thankful  love  are  filled, 

If  but  one \streak  of  light, 
One  ray  of  God's  great  mercy  gild 

The  darkness  of  their  night. 

In  palaces  are  hearts  that  ask, 
In  discontent  and  pride, 


252  HOPE. 

Why  life  is  such  a  weary  task, 
And  all  good  things  denied  ; 

And  hearts  in  poorest  huts  admire 
How  love  has  in  their  aid 

(Love  that  not  ever  seems  to  tire) 
Such  rich  provision  made. 


0  HUMBLY  take  what  God  bestows, 
And,  like  his  own  fair  flowers, 
Look  up  in  sunshine  with  a  smile, 
And  gently  bend  in  showers. 


HOPE. 

THE  night  is  mother  of  the  day, 

The  winter  of  the  spring, 
And  ever  upon  old  decay 

The  greenest  mosses  cling. 

Behind  the  cloud  the  starlight  lurks  ; 

Through  showers  the  sunbeams  fall ; 
For  God,  who  loveth  all  his  works, 

Has  left  his  hope  with  all. 

J.  G.  WHITTIEB. 


NEVER  RAIL  AT  THE  WORLD. 


TWO    WAYS. 

THERE  are  two  ways  to  live  on  earth,  — 
Two  ways  to  judge,  —  to  act,  —  to  view  ; 

For  all  things  here  have  double  birth, — 
A  right  and  wrong,  —  a  false  and  true  ! 

Some  beings,  wheresoe'er  they  go, 
Find  naught  to  please  or  to  exalt, — 

Their  constant  study  but  to  show 
Perpetual  modes  of  finding  fault. 

While  others,  in  the  ceaseless  round 

Of  daily  wants,  and  daily  care, 
Can  yet  cull  flowers  from  common  ground, 

And  twice  enjoy  the  joy  they  share  ! 

0,  happy  they  who  happy  make,  — 

Who,  blessing,  still  themselves  are  blest ! 

Who  something  spare  for  others'  sake, 
And  strive,  in  all  things,  for  the  best ! 

CHARLES  SWAIN. 


NEVER  RAIL  AT  THE  WORLD. 

ft  EVER  rail  at  the  world  —  it  is  just  as  we  make  it : 
We  see  not  the  flower,  if  we  set  not  the  seed  ; 

And  as  for  ill-luck,  why,  it 's  just  as  we  take  it,  — 
The  heart  that 's  in  earnest  no  bars  can  impede. 


254  IN   SICKNESS. 

You  question  the  justice  which  governs  man's  breast, 
And  say  that  the  search  for  true- .friendship  is  vain  ; 

But  remember,  this  world,  though  it  be  not  the  best, 
Is  the  next  to  the  best  we  shall  ever  attain. 

IBID. 


IN    SICKNESS. 

WHEN  upon  the  bed  of  Iangu6r 

Weak  and  feverish  we  toss, 
Should  something  like  impatient  anger 
Come  the  weary  mind  across, 
The  only  remedy  that 's  found 

To  drive  away  the  sin, 
Is  gentle  words  to  those  around, 
And  holy  thoughts  within. 

Thus,  in  prison  hours  full  often, 

Saints  their  rugged  beds  could  smooth  ; 
Thus  their  stern  jailer's  heart  could  soften, 
And  their  own  sad  bosoms  soothe. 
How  did  Joseph,  dungeon-bound, 

Release  and  honor  win  ? 
By  gentle  words  to  those  around, 
And  holy  thoughts  within. 

4 

Then,  although  a  prisonerfving 
Chained  in  weariness  arid  .pain, 


THE   CRIPPLE.  255 

My  soul  through  tedious  hours  is  sighing 
For  sunshine,  and  for  health  again  ; 
Yet  in  my  chamber  ne'er  be  found 

A  dream  of  selfish  sin, 
But  gentle  words  to  those  around, 
And  holy  thoughts  within. 

REV.  W.  CALVERT. 


THE    CRIPPLE. 

I  'M  a  helpless,  crippled  child  ; 

Gentle  Christians,  pity  me  ; 
Once  in  rosy  health  I  smiled, 

Ely  the  and  gay  as  you  can  be, 
And,  upon  the  village  green 
First  in  every  sport  was  seen. 

Now,  alas !  I  'm  weak  and  low, 
Cannot  either  work  or  play  ; 

Tottering  on  my  crutches  slow, 
Drag  along  my  weary  way  ; 

Now  no  longer  dance  or  sing 

Gayly  in  the  merry  ring. 

Many  sleepless  nights  I  live, 
Turning  on  my  weary  bed  : 

Softest  pillows  cannot  give 
Slumber  to  my  aching  head ; 


256  THE   CRIPPLE. 

Constant  anguish  makes  it  fly 
From  my  wakeful,  heavy  eye. 

And  when  morning  beams  return, 
Still  no  comfort  beams  for  me  ; 

Still  my  limbs  with  fever  burn, 
Painful  shoots  my  crippled  knee, 

And  another  tedious  day 

Passes  slow  and  sad  away. 

From  my  chamber-windows  high, 
Lifted  to  my  easy-chair, 

I  the  village  green  can  spy  — 
Once  I  used  to  follow  there, 

March,  or  beat  my  new-bought  drum 

Happy  times  !  no  more  to  come. 

There  I  see  my  fellows  gay 
Sporting  on  the  daisied  turf, 

And,  amidst  their  cheerful  play, 
Stopped  by  many  a  merry  laugh  ; 

But  the  sight  I  cannot  bear, 

Leaning  in  my  easy-chair. 

Let  not  then  the  scoffing  eye 
Laugh  my  twisted  leg  to  see  ; 

Gentle  Christian,  passing  by, 
Stop  awhile,  and  pity  me, 

And  for  you  I  '11  breathe  a  prayer, 

Leaning  on  my  easy-chair. 


THE   BOY   AND   THE   FLOWER.  257 


THE    BOY    AND    THE    FLOWER. 


FROM   THE  DANISH   OF  HANS  ANDERSEN. 

An  angel  is  bearing  to  heaven  the  spirit  of  a  girl,  and  carries  with  him  a 
rose.   The  newly  cleansed  soul  asks  the  meaning  of  it.    The  angel  answers :  — 

"  IN  the  city  we  are  leaving 

There  lay  a  dying  boy  ; 
The  bud  I  bear  to  heaven 

It  was  his  only  joy. 

"  His  days  were  long  and  dreary, 
In  the  dismal,  dismal  street, 

And  at  night 't  was  very  dreary 
To  count  the  passing  feet. 

"  For  he  lay  from  morn  to  midnight 
Watching  the  shadows  pass, 

And  never  saw  the  sunlight, 
Nor  the  pleasant  country  grass. 

"But  when  his  flower  opened 
He  knew  the  fields  were  green, 

And  its  falling  leaves  betokened 
That  all  the  flowers  had  been. 

"  He  saw  it  ere  he  slumbered, 
He  watched  it  as  it  grew  ; 

Q 


258  THE  BOY  AND  THE  FLOWER. 

Its  very  leaves  he  numbered, 
And  its  coming  bud  he  knew. 

"  And  to  his  aching  bosom 

It  brought  such  happy  rest, 
That  he  loved  his  little  blossom 

Next  to  his  mother  —  best. 

"  'T  was  in  the  white  December 

God  took  the  boy  above  ; 
Yet  doth  he  still  remember 

His  lowly  flower-love. 

"  It  was  not  made  to  wither, 

A  thing  so  good  and  fair ; 
Therefore  I  sought  it  thither, 

And  take  it  to  him  there. 

"  In  Heaven's  soil  abiding, 

These  buds  shall  brighter  blow, 

And  tell  us  pleasant  tiding 
Of  those  that  live  below. 

"  How  know'st  thou  this,  bright  Power?" 

Then  splendidly  he  smiled  : 
"  Should  I  not  know  my  flower  ?  — 

/  was  that  sickly  child  !  " 

TRANS.  BY  MR.  E.  ARNOLD. 


CCEUR    DE    LION   AT   THE   BIER   OF   HIS    FATHER.        259 


CCEUR  DE  LION  AT  THE  BIER  OF  HIS   FATHER. 

TORCHES  were  blazing*cTearf 
Hymns  pealing  deep  and  slow, 
»  Where  a  king  lay  stately  on  his  bier 

In  the  church  of  Fontivraud. 
Banners  of  battle  o'er  him  hung, 
And  warriors  slept  beneath, 
And  light,  as  noon's  broad  light,  was  flung 
On  the  settled  face  of  death. 

On  the  settled  face  of  death 

A  strong  and  ruddy  glare  ; 
Though  dimmed  at  times  by  the  censer's  breath, 

Yet  it  still  fell  brightest  there  : 
As  if  each  deeply  furrowed  trace 

Of  earthly  years  to  show,  — 
Alas  !  that  sceptred  mortal's  race 

Had  surely  closed  in  woe  ! 

The  marble  floor  was  swept 

By  many  a  long,  dark  stole, 
As  the  kneeling  priests  round  him  that  slept 

Sang  mass  for  the  parted  soul ; 
And  solemn  were  the  strains  they  poured 

Through  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
With  the  cross  above,  and  the  crown  and  sword, 

And  the  silent  king  in  sight. 


260       CCEUR   DE  LION   AT   THE  BIER   OF   HIS   FATHER. 

There  was  heard  a  heavy  clang 

As  of  steel-girt  men  the  tread, 
And  the  tombs,  and  the  hollow  pavement  rang 

With  a  sounding  thrill  of  dread  ; 
And  the  holy  chant  was  hushed  awhile, 

As,  by  the  torch's  flame, 
A  gleam  of  arms,  up  the  sweeping  aisle, 

"With  a  mail-clad  leader  came. 

He  came  with  haughty  look, 

An  eagle  glance  and  clear, 
But  his  proud  heart  through  his  breastplate  shook, 

When  he  stood  beside  the  bier  ! 
He  stood  there  still  with  drooping  brow, 

And  clasped  hands  o'er  it  raised  ;  — 
For  his  father  lay  before  him  low  ;  — 

It  was  Coeur  de  Lion  gazed  ! 

And  silently  he  strove 

With  the  workings  in  his  breast ; 
But  there  's  more  in  late-repentant  love 

Than  steel  can  keep  suppressed  ! 
And  his  tears  broke  forth,  at  last,  like  rain  ;  — 

Men  held  their  breath  in  awe, 
For  his  face  was  seen  by  his  warrior-train, 

And  he  recked  not  that  they  saw. 

He  looked  upon  the  dead, 
And  sorrow  seemed  to  lie, 


CCEUB   DE   LION   AT   THE   BIER   OP    HIS   FATHER.        261 

A  weight  of  sorrow  even  like  lead, 

Pale  on  the  fast-shut  eye. 
He  stooped,  and  kissed  the  frozen  cheek, 

And  the  heavy  hand  of  clay, 
Till  bursting  words,  yet  all  too  weak, 

Gave  his  soul's  passion  way. 

"  0  father  !  is  it  vain, 

This  late  remorse  and  deep  ? 
Speak  to  me,  father,  once  again  : 

I  weep,  — behold,  I  weep ! 
Alas  !  my  guilty  pride  and  ire  ! 

Were  but  this  work  undone, 
I  would  give  England's  crown,  my  sire, 

To  have  thee  bless  thy  son ! 

"  Speak  to  me  !  mighty  grief, 

Ere  now  the  dust  hath  stirred  ! 
Hear  me  !  but  hear  me,  father,  chief ! 

My  king  !  I  must  be  heard. 
Hushed,  hushed  ;  —  how  is  it  that  I  call, 

And  that  thou  answerest  not  ? 
When  was  it  thus  ?  —  woe,  woe  for  all 

The  love  my  soul  forgot ! 

"  Thy  silver  hairs  I  see, 

So  still,  so  sadly  bright ! 
And,  father  !  father  !  but  for  me 

They  had  not  been  so  white  ! 
I  bore  thee  down,  high  heart !  at  last, 

No  longer  couldst  thou  strive  ; 


262  THE  OLD  FOLKS'  ROOM. 

0,  for  one  moment  of  the  past 
To  kneel  and  say, 4  Forgive  ! ' 

"  Thou  wert  the  noblest  king 

On  royal  throne  e'er  seen  ; 
And  thou  didst  wear,  in  knightly  ring, 

Of  all  the  stateliest  mien  ; 
And  thou  didst  prove,  where  spears  are  proved 

In  war,  the  bravest  heart  — 
0,  ever  the  renowned  and  loved 

Thou  wert ;  —  and  there  thou  art ! 

"  Thou,  that  my  boyhood's  guide 

Didst  take  fond  joy  to  be  !  — 
The  times  I  've  sported  by  thy  side, 

And  climbed  the  parent-knee  ! 
And  there  before  the  blessed  shrine, 

My  sire  !  I  see  thee  lie  ; 
How  will  that  still,  sad  face  of  thine 

Look  on  me  till  I  die  !  " 

MRS.  HEMANS. 


THE    OLD    FOLKS'    ROOM. 

THE  old  man  sat  by  the  chimney-side  — 

His  face  was  wrinkled  and  wan, 
And  he  leaned  both  hands  on  his  stout  oak  cane, 

As  if  all  his  work  were  done. 


ROOM.  263 

His  coat  was  of  good  old-fashioned  gray, 

The  pockets  were  deep  and  wide, 
Where  his  "  specks  "  and  his  steel  tobacco-box, 

Lay  snugly  side  by  side. 

The  old  man  liked  to  stir  the  fire, 

So,  near  him  the  tongs  were  kept ; 
Sometimes  he  mused  as  he  gazed  at  the  coals, 

Sometimes  he  sat  and  slept. 

What  saw  he  in  the  embers  there  ? 

Ah  !  pictures  of  other  years  ; 
And  now  and  then  they  wakened  smiles, 

But  oftener  started  tears. 

His  good  wife  sat  on  the  other  side, 

In  a  high-backed,  flag-seat  chair  ; 
I  see  'neath  the  pile  of  her  muslin  cap 

The  sheen  of  her  silvery  hair. 

There  's  a  happy  look  on  her  aged  face, 

As  she  busily  knits  for  him, 
And  Nellie  takes  up  the  stitches  dropped, 

For  grandmother's  eyes  are  dim. 

Their  children  come  and  read  the  news, 

To  pass  the  time  each  day  ; 
How  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man's  heart. 

To  hear  of  the  world  away. 


264  GOOD    FROM    EVIL. 

'T  is  a  homely  scene,  I  told  you  so, 

But  pleasant  it  is  to  view  ; 
At  least  I  thought  it  so  myself, 

And  sketched  it  down  for  you. 

Be  kind  unto  the  old,  my  friend, 

They  're  worn  with  this  world's  strife, 

Though  bravely  once  perchance  they  fought 
The  stern,  fierce  battle  of  life. 

They  taught  our  youthful  feet  to  climb 

Upward  life's  rugged  steep  ; 
Then  let  us  gently  lead  them  down 

To  where  the  weary  sleep. 


GOOD    FROM    EVIL. 

THE  clouds  which  rise  with  thunder,  slake 

Our  thirsty  souls  with  rain  ; 
The  blow  most  dreaded  falls  to  break 

From  off"  our  limbs  a  chain  ; 
And  wrongs  of  man  to  man  but  make 

The  love  of  God  more  plain. 
As  through  the  shadowy  lens  of  even 
The  eye  looks  farthest  into  heaven, 
On  gleams  of  star  and  depths  of  blue 
The  glaring  sunshine  never  knew  ! 

J.  G.  WHITTIER. 


EXCELSIOR.  265 


BEAUTY    AND    DUTY. 

I  SLEPT  —  and  dreamed  that  life  was  beauty  ; 
I  woke  —  and  found  that  life  was  duty. 
Was  my  dream,  then,  a  shadowy  lie  ? 
Toil  on,  sad  heart,  courageously  ; 
And  thou  shalt  find  thy  dream  shall  be 
A  noonday  light  and  truth  to  thee. 

LUCY  HOOPER. 


EXCELSIOR. 

THE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

His  brow  was  sad  ;  his  eye  beneath, 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright ; 
12 


266  EXCELSIOR. 

Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
Excelsior ! 

"  Try  not  the  Pass !  "  the  old  man  said  ; 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide !  " 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior ! 

"  0  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  "  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast !  " 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answered  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch  ! 
Beware  the  fearful  avalanche  !  " 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  good-night ; 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior ! 

A  traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half  buried  in  the  snow  was  found,   • 


A   FAREWELL.  267 

Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior  ! 

There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star, 
Excelsior  ! 

LONGFELLOW. 


A    FAREWELL. 

MY  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you ; 

No  lark  could  pipe  to  skies  so  dull  and  gray : 
Yet,  ere  we  part,  one  lesson  I  can  leave  you 
For  every  day. 

Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will  be  clever ; 
Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them,  all  day  long ; 
And  so  make  life,  death,  and  that  vast  Forever 
One  grand,  sweet  song. 

CHARLES  KINGSLKY. 


PART    VI. 
THE    END. 


DEATH    OF    THE    NEWLY    BAPTIZED. 

LYRA   INNOCENTIUM. 

WHAT  purer,  brighter  sight  on  earth,  than  when 
The  sun  looks  down  upon  a  drop  of  dew, 

Hid  in  some  nook  from  all  but  angels'  ken, 

And  with  his  radiance  bathes  it  through  and  through, 
Then  into  realms  too  clear  for  our  frail  view 


272  LITTLE   BESSIE. 

Exhales  and  draws  it  with  absorbing  love  ? 

And  what  if  Heaven  therein  give  token  true 
Of  grace  that  new-born  dying  infants  prove, 
Just  touched  with  Jesus'  light,  then  lost  in  joys  above  ? 

KEBLE. 


LITTLE    BESSIE. 

"  HUG  me  closer,  closer,  mother  ; 
Put  your  arms  around  me  tight ; 
I  am  cold  and  tired,  mother, 
And  I  feel  so  strange  to-night ! 
Something  hurts  me  here,  dear  mother, 
Like  a  stone  upon  my  breast : 
0, 1  wonder,  wonder,  mother, 
Why  it  is  I  cannot  rest ! 

"  All  the  day,  while  you  were  working, 
As  I  lay  upon  my  bed, 
I  was  trying  to  be  patient, 
And  to  think  of  what  you  said  : 
How  the  kind  and  blessed  Jesus 
Loves  his  lambs  to  watch  and  keep ; 
And  I  wished  he  'd  come  and  take  me 
In  his  arms,  that  I  might  sleep. 

"  Just  before  the  lamp  was  lighted, 
Just  before  the  children  came, 


LITTLE   BESSIE.  273 

While  the  room  was  very  quiet, 
I  heard  some  one  call  my  name. 
All  at  once  the  windows  opened : 
In  a  field  were  lambs  and  sheep  ; 
Some  from  out  a  brook  were  drinking, 
Some  were  lying  fast  asleep. 

"  But  I  could  not  see  the  Saviour, 
Though  I  strained  my  eyes  to  see  ; 
And  I  wondered,  if  he  saw  me, 
If  he  'd  speak  to  such  as  me. 
In  a  moment  I  was  looking 
On  a  world  so  bright  and  fair, 
Which  was  full  of  little  children, 
And  they  seemed  so  happy  there. 

"  They  were  singing,  0  how  sweetly  ! 
Sweeter  songs  I  never  heard  ; 
They  were  singing  sweeter,  mother, 
Than  can  sing  our  pretty  bird  ; 
And  while  I  my  breath  was  holding, 
One  so  bright  upon  me  smiled, 
That  I  knew  it  must  be  Jesus, 
And  he  said,  '  Come  here,  my  child  ; 

"  i  Come  up  here,  my  little  Bessie  ; 
Come  up  here,  and  live  with  me ; 
Where  the  children  never  suffer, 
But  are  happier  than  you  see.' 
Then  I  thought  of  all  you  told  me 


274  THE   LOST  LITTLE   ONE. 

Of  that  bright  and  happy  land : 
I  was  going,  when  you  called  me, 
When  you  came  and  kissed  my  hand. 

"  And  at  first  I  felt  so  sorry 
You  had  called  me  :  I  would  go  — 
0,  to  sleep,  and  never  suffer  !  — 
Mother,  don't  be  crying  so  ! 
Hug  me  closer,  closer,  mother  ; 
Put  your  arms  around  me  tight ; 
0,  how  much  I  love  you,  mother ! 
But  I  feel  so  strange  to-night !  " 

And  the  mother  pressed  her  closer 
To  her  overburdened  breast ; 
On  the  heart  so  near  to  breaking 
Lay  the  heart  so  near  at  rest  ! 
In  the  solemn  hour  of  midnight, 
In  the  darkness  calm  and  deep, 
Lying  on  her  mother's  bosom, 
Little  Bessie  fell  asleep  ! 

MELODIES  FOR  CHILDHOOD. 


THE    LOST    LITTLE    ONE. 

THE  fairy  form  our  home  that  blest 
With  sport  and  prattle  gay, 

The  little  one  we  loved  the  best 
From  earth  has  passed  away. 


THE   LOST   LITTLE   ONE.  275 

We  miss  her  footfall  on  the  floor, 

Amidst  the  nursery  din, 
Her  tip-tap  at  our  bedroom  door, 

Her  bright  face  peeping  in. 

And  when  to  Heaven's  high  courts  above 

Ascends  our  social  prayer, 
Though  there  are  voices  that  we  love. 

One  sweet  voice  is  not  there. 

And  dreary  seem  the  hours,  and  lone, 

That  drag  themselves  along, 
Now  from  our  board  her  smile  is  gone, 

And  from  our  hearth  her  song. 

We  miss  that  farewell  laugh  of  hers, 

With  its  light,  joyous  sound, 
And  the  kiss  between  the  balusters, 

When  good-night  time  comes  round. 

And  empty  is  her  little  bed, 

And  on  her  pillow  there 
Must  never  rest  that  cherub  head 

With  its  soft  silken  hair. 

But  often,  as  we  wake  and  weep, 

Our  midnight  thoughts  will  roam, 
To  visit  her  cold,  dreamless  sleep, 

In  her  last  narrow  home. 


276  RESIGNATION. 

Then,  then  it  is  Faith's  tear-dimmed  eyes 

See  through  ethereal  space, 
Amidst  the  angel-crowded  skies, 
•  That  dear,  that  well-known  face. 

With  beckoning  hand  she  seems  to  say, 
"  Though,  all  her  sufferings  o'er, 

Your  little  one  is  borne  away 
To  this  celestial  shore, 

"  Doubt  not  she  longs  to  welcome  you 

To  her  glad,  bright  abode, 
There,  happy,  endless  ages  through, 

To  live  with  her  and  God." 

REV.  W.  CALVERT. 


RESIGNATION. 

THERE  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair  ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 
The  heart  of  Rachel  for  her  children  crying 

Will  not  be  comforted  ! 


RESIGNATION.  277 

Let  us  be  patient !  these  severe  afflictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapors ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  dim,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  Heaven's  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death  !  what  seems  so  is  transition ; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead  —  the  child  of  our  affection  — 

But  gone  unto  that  school, 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollution, 

She  lives  —  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 

In  those  bright  realms  of  air  ; 
Year  after  year  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 


278  RESIGNATION. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  unspoken, 

May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her  ; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child  ; 

But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  mansion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace  ; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expansion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times,  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean 

That  cannot  be  at  rest ; 

We  will  be  patient !  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  cannot  wholly  stay  ; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 

LONGFELLOW. 


THE   ALPINE   SHEPHERD.  279 


THE    ALPINE    SHEPHERD. 

WHEN  on  my  ear  your  loss  was  knelled. 

And  tender  sympathy  upburst, 
A  little  rill  from  memory  swelled, 

Which  once  had  soothed  my  bitter  thirst. 

And  I  was  fain  to  bear  to  you 
Some  portion  of  their  mild  relief, 

That  it  might  be  as  healing  dew, 
To  steal  some  fever  from  your  grief. 

After  our  child's  untroubled  breath 

Up  to  the  Father  took  its  way, 
And  on  our  home  the  shade  of  death 

Like  a  long  twilight  haunting  lay  ; 

And  friends  came  round  with  us  to  weep 
Her  little  spirit's  swift  remove, 

This  story  of  the  Alpine  sheep 
Was  told  to  us  by  one  we  love  : 

"  They  in  the  valley's  sheltering  care 
Soon  crop  the  meadow's  tender  prime, 

And  when  the  sod  grows  brown  and  bare, 
The  shepherd  strives  to  make  them  climb 


280  THE   ALPINE   SHEPHERD. 

"  To  airy  shelves  of  pasture  green, 
That  hang  along  the  mountain's  side, 

Where  grass  and  flowers  together  lean, 

And  down  through  mist  the  sunbeams  slide. 

"  But  naught  can  tempt  the  timid  things 
The  steep  and  rugged  path  to  try, 

Though  sweet  the  shepherd  calls  and  sings, 
And  seared  below  the  pastures  lie, 

"  Till  in  his  arms  the  lambs  he  takes, 

Along  the  dizzy  verge  to  go, 
Then,  heedless  of  the  rifts  and  breaks, 

They  follow  on  o'er  rock  and  snow. 

"  And  in  those  pastures  lifted  fair, 
More  dewy  soft  than  lowland  mead, 

The  shepherd  drops  his  tender  care, 
And  sheep  and  lambs  together  feed." 

This  parable,  by  Nature  breathed, 
Blew  on  me  as  the  south-wind  free 

O'er  frozen  brooks,  that  float  unsheathed 
From  icy  thraldom  to  the  sea. 

A  blissful  vision  through  the  night 
Would  all  my  happy  senses  sway, 

Of  the  Good  Shepherd  on  the  height, 
Or  climbing  up  the  starry  way, 


GOING   HOME.  281 

Holding  our  little  lamb  asleep, 

And  like  the  burden  of  the  sea 
Sounded  that  voice  along  the  deep, 

Saying,  "  Arise,  and  follow  me  !  " 

MARIA  LOWELL. 


GOING    HOME. 

"  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not;  for  of  such  is 
the  kingdom  of  Heaven." 

THEY  are  going  —  only  going  — 

Jesus  called  them  long  ago  ; 
All  the  wintry  time  they  're  passing 

Softly  as  the  falling  snow. 
When  the  violets  in  the  spring-time 

Catch  the  azure  of  the  sky, 
They  are  carried  out  to  slumber 

Sweetly  where  the  violets  lie. 

They  are  going  —  only  going  — 

When  with  summer  earth  is  dressed, 
In  their  cold  hands  holding  roses 

Folded  to  each  silent  breast ; 
When  the  autumn  hangs  red  banners 

Out  above  the  harvest  sheaves, 
They  are  going  —  ever  going  — 

Thick  and  fast,  like  falling  leaves. 


282  GOING   HOME. 

All  along  the  mighty  ages, 

All  adown  the  solemn  time, 
They  have  taken  up  their  homeward 

March  to  that  serener  clime, 
Where  the  watching,  waiting  angels 

Lead  them  from  the  shadow  dim, 
To  the  brightness  of  His  presence 

Who  has  called  them  unto  him. 

They  are  going  —  only  going  — 

Out  of  pain  and  into  bliss  — 
Out  of  sad  and  sinful  weakness 

Into  perfect  holiness. 
Snowy  brows  —  no  care  shall  shade  them  ; 

Bright  eyes  —  tears  shall  never  dim  ; 
Rosy  lips  —  no  time  shall  fade  them  ; 

Jesus  called  them  unto  him. 

Little  hearts  forever  stainless,  — 

Little  hands  as  pure  as  they,  — 
Little  feet  by  angels  guided 

Never  a  forbidden  way  ! 
They  are  going  —  ever  going  — 

Leaving  many  a  lonely  spot ; 
But  't  is  Jesus  who  lias  called  them  — 

Suffer  and  forbid  them  not. 


283 


OF   SUCH  IS  THE  KINGDOM   OF  HEAVEN." 

0,  WHY  should  children  fear, 

When  sickness  dims  the  eye, 
To  lie  down  in  the  grave, 

And  innocently  die  ; 
Since  Jesus  Christ  his  word  has  given, 
That  such  as  these  shall  enter  Heaven  ? 

Then  weep  not,  parents  dear, 

Because  we  go  above  ; 
We  leave  you  here  below, 

To  seek  a  tenderer  love  ; 
For  Jesus  Christ  his  word  has  given, 
That  such  as  WE  shall  enter  Heaven. 

Sigh  not  o'er  our  pale  brows, 

Where  death  has  set  his  seal ; 
Nor  shrink  at  those  chill  hands, 

That  have  not  power  to  feel, 
For  Jesus  Christ  his  word  has  given, 
That  such  as  WE  shall  enter  Heaven. 

Let  our  young  playmates  come, 

And  view  the  grassy  mound, 
And  plant  their  early  flowers 

As  if  't  were  happy  ground  ; 
For  Jesus  Christ  his  word  has  given, 
That  such  as  THEY  shall  enter  Heaven. 

MRS.  OILMAN. 


284  CHILDREN'S  PRAISES. 


LITTLE    PILGRIMS. 

"  WHO  are  they,  whose  little  feet, 

Pacing  life's  dark  journey  through, 
Now  have  reached  that  heavenly  seat 

They  had  ever  kept  in  view  ?  " 
"  I  from  Greenland's  frozen  land  ;  " 

"  I  from  India's  sultry  plain  ;  " 
"  I  from  Afric's  barren  sand  ;  " 

"  I  from  islands  of  the  main." 

All  our  earthly  journey  past, 

Every  tear  and  pain  gone  by, 
Here  together  meet  at  last, 

At  the  portals  of  the  sky  ; 
Each  the  welcome  "  Come!  "  awaits, 

Conquerors  o'er  death  and  sin  ! 
Lift  your  heads,  ye  golden  gates ! 

And  let  the  little  travellers  in. 

J.  EDMESTON. 


CHILDREN'S    PRAISES. 

AROUND  the  throne  of  God  in  heaven 
Thousands  of  children  stand,  — 

Children  whose  sins  are  all  forgiven, 
A  holy,  happy  band,  — 
Singing,  Glory,  glory ! 


CHILDREN'S  PRAISES.  285 

In  flowing  robes  of  spotless  white 

See  every  one  arrayed, 
Dwelling  in  everlasting  light, 

And  joys  that  never  fade,  — 
Singing,  Glory,  glory ! 

Once  they  were  little  things  like  you, 

And  lived  on  earth  below, 
And  could  not  praise,  as  now  they  do, 

The  Lord  who  loved  them  so,  — 
Singing,  Glory,  glory ! 

What  brought  them  to  that  world  above, 

That  heaven  so  bright  and  fair, 
Where  all  is  peace,  and  joy,  and  love  : 

How  come  these  children  there, — 
Singing,  Glory,  glory  ? 

On  earth  they  sought  the  Saviour's  grace, 

On  earth  they  loved  his  name  ; 
So  now  they  see  his  blessed  face, 

And  stand  before  the  Lamb,  — 
Singing,  Glory,  glory ! 


286  THE   SICK   CHILD. 


THE    SICK    CHILD. 

SEND  down  thy  winge'd  angel,  God ! 

Amidst  this  night  so  wild, 
And  bid  him  come  where  now  we  watch, 

And  breathe  upon  our  child  ! 

She  lies  upon  her  pillow,  pale, 

And  moans  within  her  sleep, 
Or  wakeneth  with  a  patient  smile, 

And  striveth  not  to  weep  ! 

How  gentle  and  how  good  a  child 

She  is,  we  know  too  well ; 
And  dearer  to  her  parents'  hearts 

Than  our  weak  words  can  tell. 

We  love,  —  we  watch  throughout  the  night, 

To  aid,  where  need  may  be  ; 
We  hope,  —  and  have  despaired  at  times  ; 

But  now  we  turn  to  Thee  ! 

Send  down  thy  sweet-souled  angel,  God ! 

Amidst  the  darkness  wild, 
And  bid  him  soothe  our  souls  to-night. 

And  heal  our  gentle  child  ! 

BARKY  CORNWALL. 


A  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.  287 


A   MOTHER'S    RECOMPENSE. 

WHAT  can  a  mother's  heart  repay, 

In  after  years, 

For  watchful  night  and  weary  day 
Beside  the  cradle  passed  away, 

And  anxious  tears  ? 
To  see  her  dear  one  tread  the  earth 
In  life  and  health,  and  childish  mirth. 

What  can  a  mother's  heart  repay 

For  later  care,  — 

For  words  that  heavenward  point  the  way, 
For  counsel  against  passion's  sway, 

And  earnest  prayer  ? 
To  watch  her  little  pilgrims  press 
Along  the  road  to  holiness. 

This  will  a  mother's  heart  repay, 

If  that  loved  band, 
Amidst  life's  doubtful  battle-fray, 
By  grace  sustained,  shall  often  say, 

"  Next  to  God's  hand, 
All  of  true  happiness  we  know, 
Mother,  to  thy  dear  self  we  owe." 

REV.  W.  CALVERT. 


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